


(you make me feel so) Summer Fling

by earlgreytea68



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 00:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: In which Patrick has zero desire to spend his summer at the beach...but kind of a lot of desire for that hot lifeguard over there.





	(you make me feel so) Summer Fling

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to the Challenge Discord, who, when this was flagging, were like, "Well, they should probably be in a band, right?" lolololol, HOW COULD I FORGET ABOUT THE BAND?????
> 
> Title from [City in a Garden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4Yd3nnreOo).

It was definitely not Patrick Stump’s idea to spend the summer before his senior year of high school at the fucking beach.

“What difference does it make,” his mother had said to him, “where you spend your summer? You’re just going to spend it holed up in your room with your computer and a guitar, so you can do it at your aunt Carol’s just as well as you can do that here.”

“No,” Patrick had argued patiently. “Because I won’t have a room at Aunt Carol’s. I’ll have to share with Connor.”

“And,” his mother had replied, “that will be good for you! You can make friends!”

“I don’t want to go to the beach,” had been Patrick’s final argument. “I do not like the beach. I think about the sun and I burn to a crisp.”

“You’ll be fine,” his mother had informed him breezily, because she had apparently never _looked_ at him.

Patrick was not fine.

Patrick was slathered in sunscreen and hiding in the tiny amount of shade offered by the lifeguard chair. He had to keep moving as the sun moved to stay in the shade. He’d brought a beach umbrella but the wind was too strong to keep it up. He was absolutely miserable. He wanted to go back to the house and stay inside and listen to appropriately morose music. His aunt Carol said he wasn’t allowed to spend the whole summer in his cousin’s room.

Patrick was absolutely fucking miserable. He was as far away from “fine” as he could get.

The lifeguard was hot, though.

The one redeeming factor of this day was that the lifeguards changed shift at one point and the perky brunette girl Connor had been cringingly ogling for an hour left and was replaced by the hottest person Patrick had ever seen in person. Patrick was trying not to stare but, like, there wasn’t anything else to do at the beach.

Connor was whining because he wanted to leave, now that his preferred hot lifeguard wasn’t there anymore. And hey, Patrick had eye candy to enjoy now but he would still prefer to be inside, so Patrick backed him up.

“You two boys are not getting your way,” Aunt Carol sniffed at them. “Why don’t you go for a swim?”

Patrick would have to be paid millions of dollars to get up and walk to the ocean and let everyone look at his pale, pasty, lumpy body. “No, thanks,” he muttered, and tried to make himself small enough to fit into the shade.

“Suit yourself,” said Aunt Carol. “But you are not going to enjoy any bit of your summer if all you do is sulk about it. Wait until I tell your mother.”

Patrick rolled his eyes behind her back, as Aunt Carol turned back to her magazine.

Connor was watching a group of girls who had just headed out into the ocean. “Maybe I will go for a swim,” he said casually, and looked at Patrick. “Are you coming?”

Patrick shook his head again, earning yet another sigh of disapproval from Aunt Carol.

Whatever. Patrick thought about the song in his head and tried to pretend he wasn’t getting a sunburn.

“Psst,” said a voice, and Patrick looked around him. “_Psst_,” it said again, and then added in a hiss, “Up here.”

Patrick looked up.

The super-hot lifeguard was leaned over the side of the chair and was apparently talking to _Patrick_.

Patrick looked behind him, just to check, because the idea that this super-hot guy could even _see_ him in amongst all the perfectly-proportioned, laughably attractive other people on this beach was preposterous.

There was no one behind him. There was Aunt Carol reading her magazine on her beach chair. Connor was still at the ocean. There was…just Patrick.

Patrick turned back to the hot lifeguard, bewildered.

The lifeguard was grinning. How super fucking annoying, his grin made him even hotter. That wasn’t necessary, that was just…_stupid_. “You,” he said. “I’m talking to you.”

Patrick wanted to say _Why?_ But that would have been pathetic, even if it was also the obvious question. So instead he said, “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the swimmers?”

“Are you going to go swim?” asked the hot lifeguard.

“No,” retorted Patrick. Why couldn’t this guy just leave him alone? Why did he have to humiliate him like this?

“Hmm,” remarked the lifeguard thoughtfully. “That’s too bad. You’re much more interesting to watch.”

Patrick wanted to have something smooth to say in response to that but since that was the last thing on the planet he had ever expected the hot lifeguard to say, he was just left gaping up at empty air when the lifeguard straightened back to sit on his chair and do his actual fucking job.

Patrick looked at Aunt Carol, wondering if she had noticed that, or if maybe he’d hallucinated it.

Aunt Carol had noticed, and was looking at him over the top of her sunglasses. “See, everyone thinks it’s weird you don’t swim.”

Patrick would have blushed scarlet if he wasn’t already as red as a lobster.

The lifeguard leaned over again to say, “By the way, you’re burning. I could help you out with sunscreen application if you want.”

Patrick choked on air and then tried to pretend he didn’t but the lifeguard had already leaned back away from him so hopefully he missed Patrick behaving like an idiot.

Aunt Carol said mildly, “They teach them how to apply sunscreen at lifeguard school.”

Patrick boggled at her. _Lifeguard school_? That had surely just been some sort of come-on.

Except… Except for the fact that Patrick looked like Patrick and that lifeguard looked like…_that_, so, yeah, given those two facts, maybe lifeguard school sunscreen application classes did seem more likely than that the hottest lifeguard in this entire tiny miserable state was flirting with him.

Patrick tried to ignore the lifeguard, even though he felt like every time he sneaked a glance over at him the lifeguard was looking back at him. He was the worst lifeguard, Patrick thought. People were going to drown left and right at this beach.

The lifeguards finally switched shifts again, relieving Patrick from the stress of all of that hotness focused on him. Connor came back from the ocean, in a terrible mood because all the girls had better taste, and he was too sulky with Aunt Carol, so Aunt Carol made him go with her to get clam cakes. Patrick was left to “guard the blanket.” Patrick had volunteered to get the clam cakes but Patrick _was new here_ and _didn’t know the area_ and apparently they thought he was going to get lost like this was some teeming metropolis and he was a tiny child. It was some fucking beach town with one street, whatever.

Patrick pulled the edge of the blanket up over his body to give himself some shade and sulked heavily into it.

Someone dropped onto the sand next to him and Patrick wondered briefly if it was a thief since he was theoretically supposed to be protecting Aunt Carol’s chair from being stolen.

And then a voice said, “Hey. So. I’m serious about those sunscreen-application services. Then you could come out from that blanket burrito.”

Patrick, astonished, tugged the blanket down just enough for him to peek an eye out.

The hot lifeguard. The hot lifeguard, right there next to him, sprawled in the sand. He had pulled a white t-shirt on that was obscuring the tattoos on his chest that Patrick had admired and that was a little annoying but he was also right there next to Patrick, close up, so it was probably good he’d covered himself up, the hotness would have irradiated Patrick at this near range.

The lifeguard smiled at him. God, that _stupid fucking smile_. “Hello, one-eye-and-a-bit-of-forehead, where’s the rest of your body?”

_Stop it_, Patrick wanted to say, feeling helplessly charmed. _I want to rip your t-shirt off you with my teeth_, Patrick wanted to say, feeling helplessly horny.

Patrick said, “Huh?”

The lifeguard turned onto his side to prop himself up on his elbow, leaning his head on his fist. “Going to make me work for it. Okay. If I make you laugh, will you pull down the blanket enough so I can see your nose?”

“What?” said Patrick. What the fuck was _happening_?

“Hmm,” mused the lifeguard. “What does a zombie vegetarian eat?”

Patrick just stared.

The lifeguard turned his free hand into something that was probably meant to indicate a zombie and monotoned out, “Graaaaaaaaains.” Then he grinned in obvious delight. “Get it?”

“That was… That was awful,” Patrick said faintly.

“Graaaaaaains,” said the lifeguard again, and playfully walked his fingers up Patrick’s blanket to tug it down past his nose.

Patrick let him, because he was too stunned to do anything else. Patrick had read about how some animals would flop down in front of their superiors in helpless surrender. That was how Patrick felt. He was just going to flop down here and let this lifeguard do whatever the fuck he wanted. Hopefully that would be sex stuff and not serial-killer-murder stuff.

The lifeguard tapped the tip of Patrick’s nose with his finger and then tipped his head close to Patrick’s. “What do I have to do,” he murmured, his voice dripping with thick, heavy suggestiveness, “to get to see that luscious mouth of yours?”

Patrick was in an embarrassing state of arousal for the situation, for the fact that this guy had only touched the tip of his nose, for the fact that this guy was probably kidding around with him on some kind of dare and didn’t actually think his mouth was luscious.

Patrick tried to swallow, his mouth dry, and tried to think of something witty to say, something that wasn’t, _You don’t have to do whatever this is you’re doing, you can just leave me alone_.

He said, “I think you’re a terrible lifeguard.”

And then he wanted to _die_. Why couldn’t he collapse into the sand and let it swallow him up?

The lifeguard looked delighted, though. He wriggled closer to him and said, still in that sex-thick tone of voice, like Patrick was talking dirty to him, “Oh, yeah? How come? No one drowned, and here I am offering my sincere sunscreen-application services to save your tender skin. What more could you want from a lifeguard, cookie jar?”

“What?” croaked Patrick. What the _fuck_ was he supposed to be doing right now? He had no idea. Nothing in his very dull seventeen years on the planet had prepared him for a person of this level of hotness speaking to him this way out of the fucking blue.

“Patrick?” Aunt Carol called. “Are you alright?”

Patrick flinched. Of fucking course.

“Oh, fuck,” the lifeguard whispered, “didn’t get you to show me your mouth.” Then he rolled away from Patrick to sit up. “He’s okay,” the lifeguard said earnestly. “I was just checking on him because he was all wrapped up in the blanket.”

“_Patrick_,” Aunt Carol scolded him, looking appalled by him.

Patrick was also appalled, for a different reason. He was _horrified_ at his aunt running over to fuss over him in front of this hot guy who had apparently just been _flirting_ with him, what the fuck was his _luck_. The universe giveth, the universe taketh away, he thought sourly. He sat up, the blanket falling down to his shoulders, and wanted to say…something. “It’s—” he started, with no idea what came next.

Not that he needed to know, because Aunt Carol interrupted him. “I told you not to behave like you’re a vampire who can’t see the sun.” She turned to the lifeguard, apparently determined to mortify Patrick as much as possible. “I’m sorry, he’s my nephew, he’s not used to the beach.”

“_Aunt Carol_,” Patrick hissed, trying to salvage some remnant of this hot guy wanting to talk about his luscious mouth.

The lifeguard said, “No, no, it’s cool,” sounding very amused by this whole thing. Why was Patrick still alive? Why couldn’t he die of humiliation already? “He’s pale, I get it. We’re always trying to watch out that everyone is as safe at the beach as possible. Just doing my job and checking up on him. I like the personal touch, you know? Want to make sure that we leave everyone…” The lifeguard paused meaningfully, looking over at Patrick. His eyes were obscured behind his sunglasses but the sparkle in them was audible when he said, “_Satisfied_.”

No, it was really defying explanation that Patrick hadn’t died yet. Surely no one should be able to handle humiliation to this degree.

Connor gaped between the lifeguard and him.

Aunt Carol, oblivious as ever, just said, “Aw, isn’t that nice. Well, I’m so sorry my nephew bothered you and took up your valuable time when you could have been helping somehow who really needed help.” Aunt Carol gave Patrick a quelling look of disappointment. “Apologize, Patrick.”

Patrick boggled at her. “What?”

“Apologize to the nice lifeguard for taking up his time,” Aunt Carol commanded him between gritted teeth.

Patrick couldn’t believe this. The _lifeguard_ had been bothering _Patrick_. Well, flirting with Patrick, but, like, Patrick had done _nothing_. Except be an embarrassingly bad flirting partner. He said, “He—” and then realized it was pointless. Aunt Carol was never going to believe this wasn’t somehow Patrick’s fault. “Sorry,” he muttered at the lifeguard.

The lifeguard’s lips were pursed in what looked like uncontrollable mirth. Patrick hated him for this entire situation. He said, “Anytime. Maybe next time I’ll convince you to get more of that blanket off of you.”

“I wish you luck,” Aunt Carol said, shaking her head. “He’s always all covered up. It’d be impressive if you could get that one to take off his hideous band t-shirt.”

Patrick closed his eyes. Maybe he _was_ dead. Maybe this was Hell.

The lifeguard said, “Well, then. I will consider that my personal challenge.”

Connor made a choking sound. Patrick put his hands over his face, wondering if he could develop the ability to teleport.

“See you around, Patrick,” said the hot lifeguard.

“No,” Patrick mumbled into his hands, “because I am going to die now.”

The lifeguard laughed, and that was how he departed.

Patrick peeked between his fingers at the lifeguard’s ridiculously gorgeous ass walking away from him. Fuck, what a confused state Patrick was in at the moment.

Aunt Carol said on a sigh, “Really, Patrick, you could be _polite_ to people, it wouldn’t kill you. I don’t know what my sister does with you.”

Connor narrowed his eyes at Patrick speculatively.

Patrick watched the lifeguard look back at him and give him a grin and a wave.

***

Patrick was never going to leave the house again. He was just going to stay hidden away, taking lots of showers to jerk off in to the memory of the hot lifeguard momentarily wanting to flirt with him on the beach. That was clearly going to be the hottest thing that was ever going to happen to him in his life, he’d already achieved his peak sexual experience and he’d done it while wrapped up in a blanket and never being touched, but _whatever_, it was going to be fodder for some really great masturbation.

Anyway, that was his plan: hide away and take lots of showers.

Patrick took one shower, got one opportunity to get a hand on his dick to the fantasy of his mouth on the lifeguard’s tattoos, before his life plan was utterly shattered.

“Patrick!” Aunt Carol was shouting for him before he was even finished dressing.

“What!” he shouted back.

“Don’t shout!” she chided him, shouting.

He rolled his eyes.

“I need you to run down to the store and pick up some milk,” she went on shouting. “We’re all out.”

“What?” he whined. “Why? Where’s Connor?”

“Connor has to take a shower now, you took forever in there,” Aunt Carol responded.

“Yeah, you took forever in there,” Connor mimicked, with a leer, as he slipped past Patrick into the bathroom.

Patrick groaned.

Aunt Carol called more urgently, “_Patrick_.”

Patrick dragged himself into the kitchen. “I thought I was new here and didn’t know where anything was.”

Aunt Carol handed him the car keys. “You won’t get lost on the way to the grocery store, and you’ll make yourself useful, hmm?” She gave him a meaningful look, like it had been _his_ choice to come here and mooch off her hospitality.

Patrick suppressed another eyeroll as he accepted the money Aunt Carol handed out to him.

“Just a gallon of milk,” she said. “No detours, no gallivanting, come right back, don’t wreck my car.”

“Oh, so I _shouldn’t_ get in a car accident?” Patrick said. “Okay, good to know.”

Aunt Carol gave him a withering look.

Patrick fled out into the car. He spent the entire five-minute drive to the grocery store trying to find acceptable music on the car’s radio, and then trying to adjust all of Aunt Carol’s sound settings so the music actually sounded decent. Then he parked at the grocery store and, heaving a deep sigh of disgust at being an errand boy, got himself out of the car and into the store.

It was frigid cold in the store and it was worse since Patrick _had_ managed to get a sunburn that day at the beach, so he was shivering a little as he grabbed the milk, and then a voice behind him said, “Hang on, do I have sunstroke, or is that Patrick unshielded by a blanket?”

Patrick froze, his hand stupidly on the handle of the gallon of milk, and looked over his shoulder at the hot lifeguard, standing at the end of the aisle behind him holding a bag of chips and a jar of salsa and dressed in eye-hurtingly bright yellow board shorts and a t-shirt he’d cut up to be sleeveless that read _Certified in mouth-to-mouth_. His sunglasses were pushed up into his dark hair, which meant that for the first time Patrick could see his eyes, could see that they were rimmed in _eyeliner_, could see the smirk on his lips echoed in the amused glint of his eyes, and Patrick turned hastily away from the milk like it was embarrassing to be buying milk and faced him fully and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said, his smile curling around Patrick’s dick.

“I’m…” Fuck, Patrick had been about to say _I’m buying milk_, which was the stupidest thing in the universe to say, he had to come up with something better to say than that. “Hi,” he saved himself, breathlessly. Nope, not something better to say. _Damn it, Patrick_, he thought at himself furiously. _Fuck you, you’re never going to have good sex at that rate_.

The lifeguard kept smiling that stupid smile. “Hi,” he said again.

Patrick bit his lip before he could say _hi_ again.

The lifeguard said suddenly, “Hey, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Oh, great,” Patrick said in relief. “What is it?”

“Do you like _Star Wars_?”

Patrick hadn’t expected that. “Who doesn’t like _Star Wars_?” he asked incredulously.

The lifeguard’s smile widened. “Good answer. My friends and I are doing a _Star Wars_ marathon.” He indicated the chips and salsa in his hands. “Do you want in?”

Patrick had his aunt’s car in the parking lot that he was supposed to bring back. Right away.

Patrick had a hot lifeguard in front of him with eyes he wanted to drown in and a mouth that could save him with a kiss.

A hot lifeguard who should not be paying any attention to him and Patrick was not going to fuck with whatever kind fairy godmother was smiling down on him tonight.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said hastily. “I totally want in.”

“Did you need to buy milk or something—”

“Nope,” Patrick lied blatantly. “Nope, I’m good to go right now.”

The lifeguard brightened. “Cool. Awesome. This must be my lucky day.”

_Your_ lucky day? Patrick wanted to say, trying not to actively drool over the lifeguard’s biceps.

“So.” The lifeguard turned and Patrick hurried to follow him toward the checkout. “Chips and salsa okay for a snack? I wasn’t feeling adventurous. We’ll probably order in a pizza or something, too.”

“Sure, sure,” Patrick said, nodding like a fucking bobblehead doll over how much he really didn’t care about the _snacks_.

“Cool. Andy’s, like, a vegan. I mean, he’s not _like_ a vegan, he _is_ a vegan, but the pizza won’t be dire, I promise. He’s, like, a cool vegan. Everyone’s cool. If you hate them, we don’t have to stay and I can take you out to the pier and make out with you under the stars.” The lifeguard gave him a broad wink.

Patrick was grateful that his sunburn was probably covering his blush.

The cashier gave him a look, and Patrick wanted to say, _Yeah, I know he’s way out of my league, I can’t explain it either_.

Patrick also wanted to say, _I bet I’m going to hate your friends, we should skip to the making out part_, but that seemed rude when this guy was trying to be friendly, or…whatever the fuck was going on here.

“Joe’s my other friend,” the lifeguard went on, heading out of the store now. They passed from the freezing air-conditioning into the wall of wet heat of the summer day. The air was just always so _wet_ here, Patrick felt like he was perpetually moist, it was gross. “He might offer you some weed, but if that’s not your thing, no big deal.”

Patrick didn’t know if weed was his thing or not. He was undecided if this was a good night to give it a try.

“Okay.” The lifeguard paused by a car that Patrick assumed was his. “This isn’t a big thing. Don’t freak out.”

_Oh, fuck_, thought Patrick, _here’s the part where he turns into a serial killer and tells me about the human heads he keeps in his trunk_. Patrick glanced nervously at the trunk of the car.

“You look like you’re freaking out,” said the lifeguard.

“Do you keep heads in your trunk?” Patrick asked.

“_Human_ heads?” said the lifeguard. “Fuck, no. What the fuck, man. Who keeps human heads in their trunk? Everyone knows you should only keep dog heads in your trunk.”

“That’s not funny,” Patrick mumbled, embarrassed. “You could be a murderer.”

“I’m not a murderer, I’m a lifeguard. I _save lives_.”

“Oh, yeah, you looked real into saving lives while you were worrying about my sunburn on the beach,” Patrick couldn’t help but retort.

“Hey, that _was_ life-saving, skin cancer is no joke, Patrick. I’ve kind of got a suspended license.”

“…A suspended lifeguarding license?” said Patrick, confused.

“No, a suspended driver’s license,” said the lifeguard. “You’ve got a weird little mind, I like it.”

“But how’d you get here?” asked Patrick.

“I drove. I’m just saying. It would probably be more legal if you drove now. Assuming you have a valid driver’s license.”

“This is a fucking strange night,” murmured Patrick.

The lifeguard grinned in delight and said, “Oh, it’s just getting started, Trickalistic.” He tossed Patrick his keys and added, “My name’s Pete, by the way.”

***

Pete gave terrible directions, scattered and useless, telling him to take a left at the light when he was already two streets past the intersection, trying to convince him to go the wrong way down a one-way street.

“I can see why your license got suspended,” Patrick commented, trying to conform to both Pete’s directions and local traffic laws.

Pete laughed in what seemed like delight, poking at the radio in the car and saying, “Okay, okay, _this_ is your musical taste! Right? Am I right?”

It was some horrible off-key warbling. Patrick wrinkled his nose. “What the fuck even is that station? Why is it on your presets?”

“Fuck if I know,” said Pete. “How’s this one?”

“Worse,” said Patrick. “Honestly, is this even your car? Is this what you listen to?”

“Are you a music snob?” Pete sounded thrilled at the thought. “Oh, are you a _music snob_? You totally are, aren’t you? I mean, of course you are, that’s why your aunt made that band t-shirt comment. Why aren’t you wearing a band t-shirt now? How’m I supposed to get you out of your band t-shirt when you’re wearing… What are you wearing? Is that argyle? Is that what that’s called? Who owns an argyle _t-shirt_?”

“Okay,” Patrick said, valiant around the strength of his blush, “first of all, people wearing neon yellow shorts and a questionable desecrated t-shirt shouldn’t throw stones.”

“_Questionable_?” Pete yelped. “What? This is _hot_.”

“It’s not hot,” Patrick denied.

Pete scoffed. “Oh, come off it, it’s totally hot, it worked on you.”

“Other things worked on me. You’re lucky you have other things to make up for your terrible t-shirt.”

“Other things,” Pete echoed, rolling the phrase around in his mouth so obscenely that it was like Patrick could _feel_ his tongue swirling around his dick. “Tell me about the other things I have.”

“_Second of all_,” said Patrick, trying to regain control of the conversation. “This t-shirt was a gift.”

“Who the fuck hates you so much they got you an argyle t-shirt? Oh, wait, that was the place, we just passed it.”

“You’re the worst,” Patrick huffed, trying to do an illegal U-turn that turned into a three-point turn. “You’re the actual worst.” Patrick glanced at him, with his smudged eyeliner around his eyes and his smirking mouth and his stupid tattoos snaking over his stupid arms. He was fucking far from the worst, damn him.

“When you say ‘you’re the worst,’ it sounds like ‘you’re the best,’” Pete grinned at him. 

“You have issues,” Patrick said primly, turning his attention back to the road. “Now, which house is it so we don’t pass it again.”

“This one, this one,” Pete said urgently, tapping at the window to indicate the house.

They were in a part of town crowded with tiny beach houses, the sort with front porches draped with perpetually damp and sandy beach towels, and coolers parked by the front door for the next beach trip. The yard was tiny and scraggly-grassed, beaten-down and defeated, and Patrick understood why when Pete said dismissively, “Just park on the grass.”

Patrick obeyed, a little dubiously.

When he was parked, he shut the car off and turned to Pete, feeling awkward as he handed his keys back. It wasn’t like he went home with hot strangers every day, after all. Any minute now, Pete might reveal his seral killer tendencies. Any minute now, Pete might whip out his penis and Patrick would have to feign an expertise with penises that did not belong to him. 

Pete said earnestly, “You’re a really good driver, Patrick.”

If Pete was a serial killer, this seemed a strange way to go about it. Then again, if Pete wanted to have sex with him, that seemed like an equally strange way to go about it.

“I think I’m probably an average driver,” Patrick said uncertainly.

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short, Trick-a-dick.”

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick said.

“Yeah, that one didn’t work. Come on in.” Pete swung his way out of the car.

Patrick took a deep breath and looked back at the thoroughly ordinary gray-shingled house in front of him. Then he texted his aunt, because he was already going to be grounded until the end of time, but there was no reason to cause her to call the police or something. _Ran into some friends at the store, going to watch a movie, be back soon_, he texted, and then put his phone on silent.

“Yo.” Pete knocked on Patrick’s window. “Coming?”

Patrick nodded. Yes. Definitely coming. Being grounded for the rest of his life, so getting his money’s worth tonight.

Definitely.

***

The beach house opened into one room that was kitchen and dining and living all jumbled together, and there were two guys in the kitchen area squabbling good-naturedly in the kitchen when Patrick followed Pete inside. They stopped when they saw Patrick.

“Hi, guys, this is Patrick, don’t frighten him, I told him we’d have pizza,” Pete said cheerfully.

They were still staring at him, which made Patrick wonder if it was unusual for Pete to bring someone home (which made Patrick feel better) or if it was unusual for Pete to bring someone home who looked like _Patrick_ (which made Patrick feel obviously worse).

“Hi,” Patrick offered, because that was totally the best he could do as far as conversation went.

“This is Joe, this is Andy, they’re being weird, Patrick’s just going to watch _Star Wars_ with us, look, I got us salsa.” Pete spoke entirely in run-on sentences, Patrick thought, jumping from topic to topic.

“Hi, Patrick,” said one of Pete’s housemates slowly. “Welcome.”

“Thanks,” Patrick managed. This had been a terrible idea. He should have bought the milk and gone back to his aunt’s house and left Pete a fantasy for the shower.

Pete pressed a bottle of beer into his hand and said, “Let’s watch the movie,” and it felt too late for Patrick to change his mind and say, _No, wait, this is embarrassing, I don’t know what I’m doing here_.

The housemate who had spoken said, “Hmm.”

The other one shrugged and said, “Okay. Want some weed?”

“I’m okay,” Patrick said. He was already going to have to pretend to be cool at drinking beer instead of a hopeless teenager sneaking it at parties. He couldn’t also pretend about weed, too. Fuck, he was the most boring seventeen-year-old on the planet, why would this hot lifeguard ever want to make out with him?

“Did we order the pizza yet?” Pete asked, opening his own bottle of beer with a twist of it in his shirt.

Patrick followed suit, smooth and confident like he did this all the time and it totally wasn’t against the law for Pete to have given him this beer. Patrick glanced toward the windows. One of them was covered by a humming air-conditioning unit that seemed to make it hotter in the room than it was outside. The other was only half-obscured by a beach towel being used as a half-hearted curtain. The house next door was having a lingering beach party, playing cornhole back and forth, right in view of Patrick and his illegal beer. Patrick wanted to be like, _Should I be drinking this where people can see? _And then felt like _such_ a goody-two-shoes idiot, he was seriously never going to get laid, he was _pathetic_.

“We ordered the pizza,” said Joe or Andy, still looking at Patrick, like he knew what a loser Patrick was. “Should we wait for it come to start the movie?”

Patrick hoped fervently for the movie to start. He did not want to have to stand here being judged silently for however long until the pizza got there.

Pete said, “No, I promised Patrick _Star Wars_ and _Star Wars_ shall he get. For I am a reliable person who keeps his promises.”

Joe-or-Andy snorted, and Andy-or-Joe collapsed into laughter.

Pete said to Patrick, “I need better friends, clearly. Come watch the movie with me.”

Pete closed his hand into Patrick’s and tugged him toward the couch and settled him next to him on it and Patrick was endlessly confused but apparently Pete really was into him, or…something. He took a nervous sip of his beer to pretend he knew what was going on.

They started the movie, and Pete sat next to Patrick like a total gentleman, and they all passed the chips and salsa between them, and it didn’t feel at all like…a date. Or a…booty call? Patrick cringed at the very term, but Patrick had no idea what to call any of this. Anyway, it felt like making new friends while watching a movie, exactly what Patrick had told his aunt. Patrick could speak intelligently about sci-fi, and neither Pete nor his housemates seemed to think that was dorky, in fact, they seemed super into all of Patrick’s thoughts on the various obviously ongoing debates they had between them. Patrick realized with a start that he was…having a good time. He’d almost forgotten what that was like, to just sit and have a good time with people without all the fucking pressure of who you were expected to hook up with at the end of the night. Which was ironic, since Patrick had embarked on this entire evening because of who he wanted to hook up with, so it was almost like Pete had performed some kind of magic trick, making Patrick relax about sex while simultaneously curled into Patrick’s side.

They had to pause the movie for the vegan pizza, and when they got settled on the couch again Pete curled even closer to him, put his head on his shoulder, and Patrick held his breath and concentrated on not being such an _embarrassing fucking teenager_ who got hard because a hot guy put his _head_ on his _shoulder_.

_Pull yourself together, Patrick_, he told himself furiously.

Pete smelled like the beach: salt and sunscreen. He was hot, the heat of trapped sunlight. He was solid and he breathed rhythmically up against Patrick and if Patrick turned his head just so Pete’s hair tickled his nose. It was nice. And, actually, in terms of Patrick firsts, Patrick had made out with a boy before but Patrick had never had one cuddled up to him, and he was unprepared for how much he liked it, how it made his heart beat thickly, his blood thudding at his pulse points.

Patrick finished his beer and had another and his head was buzzing, from Pete and beer and Pete, and it was this state of drunken arousal that made him bold enough to slip a single finger against the skin just above the waistband of Pete’s hideous shorts. He did it blindly, eyes on the movie, wondering if it could at all be called accidental. Pete’s skin was shockingly hot against his finger, smooth, soft. Pete was so still Patrick thought he was holding his breath, so Patrick slid his finger along the curve of Pete’s hip bone, just a bit.

Pete’s breath caught audibly. He turned his head to nose behind Patrick’s ear and murmur, “Lower.” It was just a whisper, hidden under the soundtrack of the movie and the humming of the air conditioning, but Patrick’s cock heard it like a shout. Which was annoying, to say the least, there was nothing to hide an erection under.

He slipped his finger under the waistband of Pete’s shorts, which really was only slightly lower than Pete’s hip, it wasn’t like his hand was now on Pete’s dick or anything. Pete shifted, turning toward him more fully, sliding Patrick’s finger along under the path of his waistband, until Patrick felt it hit the trail of coarse hair, and Patrick held his breath because if he didn’t he would start panting, and Joe and Andy were _right there_, and also this was so stupid, he had a _finger_ on Pete’s _stomach_, but still, this should not be happening in public, he was definitely too hard to be in public, he tried to surreptitiously curl on his side toward Pete, which was the stupidest and most obvious move in the entire universe.

Pete’s lips, against the line of Patrick’s jaw, curved into an amused smile at Patrick’s expense, and Patrick was okay with that, Pete could laugh at him all he wanted, this was the most ridiculously erotic experience of Patrick’s life, what was _happening_.

Pete shifted a little away from Patrick but clasped his hand over Patrick’s low on his belly, underneath that ridiculous t-shirt he was wearing. Pete’s fingers were calloused, Patrick realized distantly, with the part of his brain trying to lock into memory every sensation of this for his future when this was going to be his primary masturbatory fodder. Pete said loudly, “The thing about every single movie is that the bad guys can never shoot. I want to make a movie where the villain is just like, ‘Hey. All of you need to go to a shooting range at least once a week.’”

It was hardly the most interesting observation in the world but Joe and Andy immediately riffed off of it, sketching out a whole movie, and Pete smiled next to Patrick and danced his fingers along Patrick’s hand, skimming along his skin, and Patrick was dizzy, he’d never thought to fantasize about anything like this and he couldn’t believe it had never occurred to him.

The movie ended and Patrick was scarcely aware of it, his head was throbbing in time with how badly his dick wanted to be touched and he’d been trapped in this waiting room of barely touching Pete for so long that he felt light-headed with how little he’d been breathing.

Joe and Andy made noises about going to bed, with exaggerated yawns, and said it was nice to meet Patrick, and disappeared down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, and Patrick maybe mumbled something in response to them, and maybe didn’t, he really had no idea, they left the room and Patrick was just _on Pete immediately._ He made no conscious decision to do it, he just turned and fucking _pounced_, as soon as he could, and he had thought he’d be too self-conscious with how good-looking Pete was to do anything like this but he kissed Pete with too much impatience to worry about that, with the relief of that mouth on his like the relief of a deep breath after too much time underwater, Patrick gasped and gasped, drowning in Pete’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Pete mumbled, his hands in Patrick’s hair to keep him close as he kissed him back and kissed him back and kissed him back, Pete was such a good kisser, Pete had a tongue that stroked Patrick into a sound he’d never made before, pitching forward with no sense of balance just to get closer to Pete, to get some amount of friction up against his poor, desperate dick.

He would have rutted humiliatingly against Pete’s leg and probably gotten off like that way too quickly except that Pete grabbed his hips to keep them still, slowly pulling out of the depth of their kissing to mutter thickly, “Patrick. Patrick.”

Pete turned his head to stop Patrick from licking back into his mouth so Patrick licked the line of his jaw instead, the rasp of stubble against his tongue, the taste of sweat and sea spray and sunscreen, making Patrick shudder deep, shift his hips in an abortive movement Pete fought against.

Pete groaned, which was such a delicious sound Patrick wanted him to make it again and again and again, wanted to hear it in his fucking dreams, forever. “Oh, Christ,” said Pete.

Patrick bit under Pete’s jaw. Patrick had tricks he’d tried out on a very tiny sample size of people, and that one seemed like a good one.

“_Fuck_,” said Pete forcefully, and ground upward into Patrick with such deliberate finesse that Patrick had to stutter out a groan of his own, panting into Pete’s neck. “Patrick, Patrick, listen to me, listen to me,” Pete gulped out, speaking quickly, panicked, into Patrick’s ear.

Patrick was listening, Patrick was listening _so hard_, to his name in that particular tone of voice, gorgeously wrecked because Patrick was sprawled on top of him kissing him.

“How old are you?” Pete’s voice said in that sexy-as-fuck tone.

Patrick froze against Pete. No fucking way was he getting this far and not getting the rest of the way, god-fucking-dammit.

Pete’s voice continued, thick and syrupy in his ear. “Just so you know. The right answer to that question is that you are whatever age you need to be to lawfully consent to me touching your dick right now.”

Patrick had no idea what the laws of this state were and Patrick did not fucking care. Patrick nodded desperately against Pete’s throat, squirming in the hold Pete had on him, chanting like a prayer, “I consent, I consent, I consent, I consent _so fucking much_ to that.”

“Fuckin’ A,” said Pete, and then noticeably did not touch Patrick’s dick in favor of kissing him some more, and Patrick got that the kissing was pretty great, but hey, if Pete didn’t touch him soon he was just going to spontaneously combust or something.

He reached for his pants unthinkingly but Pete grabbed his hands and said in a low voice, “Don’t you dare touch, that’s mine,” and the only reason Patrick didn’t come on the spot was because he was apparently superhuman and didn’t know it, but his vision clouded over with spots because he was so turned on he was literally losing control of his senses, everything in his bodily system was either reporting on what Pete was doing in a fever pitch or else was being thrown overboard so he could invest more resources in the Pete situation.

“Hands here,” Pete said, guiding Patrick’s hands into his hair. Patrick held on tight, fists in clumps of Pete’s hair. “You are,” said Pete, his hands sweeping Patrick’s shirt up to map across his ribcage, “so fucking hot. I cannot get enough of you. I wanted you like this as soon as I saw you.”

That couldn’t be true, Patrick was nothing to write home about, but Patrick didn’t want Pete to stop talking ever, he didn’t want any of this to stop, none of it, he couldn’t believe it was happening to him, he wanted to come and he never wanted to come because then this would be over.

“Lick my hand,” Pete said, suddenly interrupting his train of compliments to stick a hand in front of Patrick’s face.

Patrick, after a dazed moment of untangling the command in his sex-drugged head, licked a strip up the palm of Pete’s hand and then pulled Pete’s little finger into his mouth, added his ring finger, swirled his tongue and sucked them lavishly, wet and hungry, he’d never done that before and he’d literally had no idea he _wanted_ to do that to someone, but somehow the idea of not having Pete’s fingers in his mouth felt like a physical ache that would harm him. He went for Pete’s middle finger next.

“Oh, fuck, your fucking _mouth_,” Pete said under his breath, and Patrick opened his eyes to look at him. His eyes were wide, black, and his mouth was obscene, and his hair was a disaster, and Patrick thought, _How the fuck did you get here, Patrick Stump, you lucky bastard?_

Pete pulled his fingers free of Patrick’s mouth and said frantically, “Kiss me,” before Patrick could voice his protests of emptiness.

He kissed Pete and into the tangled uncoordinated confusion of the kiss Pete got Patrick’s jeans open and his hand, wet with Patrick’s own saliva, around Patrick’s dick, and Patrick gasped, breaking the kiss, and Pete mumbled, sounding as hazy as Patrick felt, “No, kiss me, kiss me,” using his free hand to tug Patrick’s head back, to push their mouths back together, and Patrick kissed, clumsy and breathless and already so fucked-out with bliss that he honestly wasn’t sure if he came or just ceased to _be_. 

***

Patrick wasn’t a virgin. Patrick had had sex before. Patrick had had heterosexual sex, thoroughly underwhelming sex with a girl, and he had thought maybe he was just terrible at sex, and then he’d made out with a boy and come in his pants and it had been a thousand times more satisfying and he’d thought, _Hey, maybe I should pay attention to my suspicion about who I find hotter_.

But Patrick had never had sex with a boy who had wanted _him_ to get off. Like, sure, Patrick had found guys who wanted to make out with him, there were other boys out there, boys okay with making out with another boy, boys okay with getting off no matter how it happened, but all of them drew lines in the sand about being worried about getting _another guy_ off. Like, _that_ was crossing the line into gayness, obviously, and Patrick, trying to slice through internalized homophobia in his miserable Chicago suburb, had just never yet found someone who was more worried about Patrick than himself.

Granted, Patrick hadn’t exactly been a partner worried about the other person’s pleasure, either, and he still wasn’t, he had to admit, because by the time he came back to himself, collapsed on Pete, entirely boneless and spent, thoroughly incapable of moving, he could tell that Pete had already taken care of himself.

Patrick felt bad about that, he should have been better, but he was having difficulty being too hard on himself considering he had not expected, literally could not have anticipated, how much it was going to take his breath away to feel _this fucking wanted_. He had had a vague plan, where he was going to go home with this guy, this incredibly hot guy, and he was going to get an orgasm out of it, and then he was going to be able to go on with his life.

Fuck, he had been so fucking wrong, what a fucking idiot he was.

Because Patrick sprawled on top of Pete, and Pete’s hands were on him, resting heavily on the small of his back, keeping him there like he belonged, and Patrick was hot and sweaty and so was Pete under him and they had done that _together_ and Pete had said such _words_ to him and had _wanted_ him, was still clasping him close, still wanted him, and Patrick felt like a piece of him was going to live right here, in this moment, forever.

He was so fucked. In more ways than one. He fully grasped every meaning of that word for once.

He turned his face into Pete’s shoulder and took a deep breath to try to steady himself, to try not to reveal how much he was fucking _feeling_ like a _baby_.

“I should have…” he started, and tried to think of how to articulate everything he should have done for and to Pete and failed to do.

Luckily Pete cut him off and saved him from this. He said drowsily, “Stop, you were perfect, that was fucking perfect.” He tipped his head to nuzzle at Patrick’s temple.

Patrick was being _nuzzled_. Fuck, his fantasies were going to be all fucked up from now on. He closed his eyes and breathed and breathed and thought _this, this, this_ and _Pete, Pete, Pete_.

“Can you stay?” Pete asked muzzily. “Tell me you can stay. We can go to bed. We can sleep together. We can do this again in the morning. Stay.”

Patrick wanted to more than he wanted to _live_. Almost. His aunt was going to kill him already, and his mother was going to kill him again. He couldn’t possibly stay the night, it would be disastrous. Patrick could barely comprehend how disastrous it was already going to be.

But he wanted to _so much_. And he thrilled so much to the fact that Pete _wanted_ him to.

“I can’t,” he said, with aching regret, into Pete’s terrible t-shirt. He’d breathed a damp patch onto it. Fuck, he had never even taken Pete’s shirt off. Then again. He was still fully dressed, too. “I want to, but I can’t.”

“It’s cool,” Pete said. “I mean, not cool, obviously, I’d love for you to stay but I get it. Can you stay another hour? Stay another hour and doze with me here, hmm?”

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t. He was going to fall asleep if he stayed. _Sleeping with Pete_, he thought. _Letting Pete doze_. He tucked these things away in his whirling list of _things I didn’t know I wanted_.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m so sorry, I can’t, I can’t.”

“No,” Pete said, with a little sigh. “It’s fine. I’ll drive you back to your car.”

Pete shifted, and Patrick took the hint and sat up and then looked down. They were…a mess. There was no other way to put it. Pete, yawning, pulled his ruined t-shirt off him and offered it to Patrick.

Patrick wrinkled his nose. “What am I doing with that?”

“Oh, fuck, right, I should be classy, you’re totally right, hang on.” Pete got up off the couch and went to the kitchen and came back with a dishtowel.

“Good enough,” Patrick allowed, and tried to clean himself up. It was pretty futile. Oh, well.

“You’re so fancy,” Pete remarked, sounding amused, and Patrick looked at him suspiciously. He was past the aroused haze that had let him not mind being made fun of.

“I’m not fancy because I didn’t want to use your gross shirt,” Patrick grumbled.

“Shows you the quality I usually hang out with,” said Pete, totally unrepentant grin in place.

Patrick went to give him a dark look, got caught in how incredibly attractive he was, reminded himself that he’d just shared orgasms with him, and wondered suddenly if this was all a dream and he was going to wake up.

Pete, apparently unaware of Patrick’s suspended moment of confusion, said cheerfully, “Let’s go,” and headed out of the house shirtless.

The sticky, half-hearted darkness of a summer night by the beach had fallen around them. The party was still going on next door, citronella lanterns blazing and the conversation loud. There were cars with thumping bass pulled up to the house on the corner, the scent of pot hanging heavy in the air. This neighborhood was way more energetic than the sleepy part of town Patrick’s aunt was in, full of families with toddlers who went to bed by eight p.m. and woke up at five a.m. with shrieks through the sprinklers.

No one blinked at Pete’s shirtlessness, it was totally appropriate.

Patrick drove, remembering the way, and Pete, still poking around at the radio, seemed inordinately impressed by that.

“What, do you have, like, a photographic memory?”

“Pete, there’s, like, two streets in this town,” Patrick pointed out.

“You’re so smart,” Pete said happily.

Patrick rolled his eyes and pulled into the supermarket parking lot and parked by his aunt’s car. The parking lot was almost cleared out at this time of night.

Then Patrick sat and took a deep breath and wondered what he was supposed to say. _Thanks, that was cool_ seemed inadequate and way too breezy for Patrick to ever pull off. _When can I see you again?_ sounded pathetic.

Pete spoke first. “Trick, I want you to know, I fully intended to be totally respectable and not maul you like that tonight, I was going to do this whole, like, sweet, romantic date thing and I failed. But I _wanted_ to, so I am hoping for some credit for the thought.”

Patrick looked at him, surprised enough to say honestly, “I was never going to let you get away with not mauling me like that.”

Pete laughed, sounding genuinely delighted. “I like you a lot a lot,” he said, and wriggled forward to kiss him, lower lip between his teeth.

“You don’t even know me,” Patrick pointed out, but breathily because hey, he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to kiss Pete back.

“I like this mouth a lot a lot,” Pete said. “And I like that you pretend you don’t think I’m hilarious. And I like that you’re smart, and fierce, and stubborn, and sweet but not too much. Semi-sweet. And I like the way you say my name. Look at how much I know about you.”

“How do you know all that about me?” Patrick asked, confused, because he wasn’t sure he knew half as much about Pete.

“I’ve been paying attention,” Pete said, with one of his quick, addictive grins. Then he ducked forward to whisper in Patrick’s ear. “I like that you like me, too.”

“I don’t even know you,” Patrick managed faintly, red-faced with the sure knowledge that Pete was right.

“Uh-huh,” said Pete knowingly, and closed his teeth around Patrick’s earlobe and tugged. Then he sat back. “Come to the beach tomorrow. I’m working. I’ll track you down.”

Patrick suddenly wanted to spend his entire summer at the beach. What a plot twist. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll try. I might, like…” Patrick hesitated, thought of Pete asking how old he was, blurted out, “be grounded for probably the rest of my life.”

“Let me see your phone,” Pete said, unblinking.

Patrick pulled it out and glanced at the series of shrieking texts and missed phone calls and deleted all of them, before handing the phone across to Pete.

Pete tapped over it, saying, “I’m sending myself a text so you have my number. Text me if you’re grounded and I’ll show up and charm you out of it.”

Patrick lifted a dubious eyebrow and regarded Pete’s tattooed chest. “You think so, do you?”

“Underestimate me at your peril, Tricky,” Pete said with another grin.

Patrick sighed a little.

“You like me _so_ much,” said Pete, and kissed his cheek playfully.

“Go away,” Patrick said sulkily. “I don’t like you. You’re just kind of good-looking.”

“Never play poker with me, Trick,” said Pete. “Anyway, I can’t go away, you’re in my car.”

Right. That was a good point. Patrick got himself out of Pete’s car, handing across the keys and saying, “Don’t get lost and don’t get pulled over by police.”

“I’ll be fine,” Pete said, waving a hand around dismissively, with a confidence undeserved by a person with a suspended license.

Patrick had a feeling _undeserved confidence_ was a Pete character trait.

Pete said, “I will see you tomorrow, come hell or high water.”

“Hopefully neither,” Patrick said.

Pete gave him a little salute and drove off.

Patrick looked at his aunt’s thoroughly ordinary car and said out loud to it, “What the fuck.” He was still incredibly gross from having sex on a couch in his clothes, or else he wouldn’t have believed it himself.

Patrick drove to his aunt’s with his head mostly still with Pete, replaying everything that had happened, every incredible amazing thing. He was almost to the house before he remembered the milk and stopped at a gas station to grab some.

When he got to his aunt’s house, she was hysterical at him. He let her scream her way through half of a tirade, then interjected calmly, “You keep telling me to make friends. I made friends.”

“With _who_?” she demanded.

Connor, blatantly enjoying the spectacle, looked equally curious.

Patrick said, “People I met at the beach. I watched _Star Wars_ with them.” All of these things were true. Patrick was proud of himself.

“They could have been _murderers_.”

“They weren’t.”

“You took my _car_,” his aunt screeched.

“But I got the milk, at least.” Patrick put it on the table with a flourish.

Aunt Carol boggled at it.

Patrick put the car keys next to it and said, “I’m going to go to bed now,” and Aunt Carol was actually too shocked to stop him.

What an incredible night this had been, Patrick thought, as he changed out of his pretty dire clothes. Connor was sitting up in bed on his phone when Patrick came into the room, but Patrick was honestly exhausted and slid into bed without saying anything. He just wanted to fall asleep to memories playing on a loop in his head.

Connor said, “My mom is clueless but I’m not an idiot. You got _laid_.”

“So?” Patrick said into his pillow.

“So nothing. I’m jealous. Who’d you get to give it up?”

Patrick snorted. Like he was going to tell Connor. “That would be kissing and telling.”

“Whatever,” sighed Connor.

Patrick’s phone buzzed under his pillow and he pulled it out. Text from an unknown number. _Thx u werent that shabby urself!_ Patrick drew his eyebrows together. That must be Pete’s number, but the text made no sense.

He swiped into his messages to save Pete’s number and saw the text Pete had sent to himself in Patrick’s name. _that was the best orgasm I ever had!!!!!!_ And then the eggplant emoji.

Patrick huffed out a breath he told himself wasn’t amused. _Idiot_, he texted back.

Pete texted back immediately with a bunch of heart emojis, and that was extra-ridiculous, almost as ridiculous as Patrick sleeping with his hand wrapped around the image of that text message on his phone.

***

Pete Wentz woke up the morning after meeting Patrick to a whole new world.

Okay, it was still the same alarm going off on the same phone in the same bedroom and he took a shower in the same bathroom and dressed in the same bathing suit and t-shirt for work but he did it all thinking about _Patrick_ and that made everything a million times better. Patrick and his smart, sullen mouth that kissed him so sweetly. Patrick, who wanted to come across suspicious and wary but looked at him with such greedy, hungry eyes. Patrick, pretending not to care about him but blushing so beautifully whenever Pete came near. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, the breeze coming in through the tiny window in the shower sighed it at him and Pete sighed along with it.

Joe and Andy were in the main room when Pete came out from his shower.

Pete stood in the middle of the room and flung out his arms and proclaimed, “It is a grand and glorious morning, am I right?”

Andy gave him a dark look.

Joe said accusingly, “The rule is: no sex on the couch, remember?”

Pete opened and closed his mouth, then said, “Penetrative sex, right?”

“Anything with _orgasms_,” Andy snapped.

“Hmm,” said Pete, looking at the couch. “Okay, well, it’s still a grand and glorious morning and the two of you aren’t going to ruin it by reminding me exactly _why_ it’s so grand and glorious.” Pete moved into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“How old is he, Pete?” Andy asked him seriously.

Pete swallowed a sip of coffee. “Totally legal,” he assured him earnestly. “I looked it up and age of consent is sixteen here and he has a driver’s license, so. I think. I think he has a driver’s license. He knows how to drive.” Pete shrugged.

“Pete,” said Joe, “do you think our standard should be higher than ‘it’s not a felony if we have sex’?”

“Let me tell you what needs higher standards. This state’s consent law only applies to _heterosexual_ relationships. That means that technically all homosexual relationships are illegal. Think about _that_, and then talk to me about standards.” Pete sipped his coffee wisely.

“How did you even meet him?” Andy asked.

“At the beach. He was hiding from the sun. He’s very fair, did you notice?”

“Yes,” said Andy, and then he and Joe both fell silent.

Pete hesitated. He’d known he’d broken the no-sex rule but he hadn’t expected them to be quite so hung up on that. He would have forgiven them for sex on the couch, especially if they’d had someone as hot as Patrick all over them. He said, “Did you not like him?”

Andy and Joe both sighed.

Pete frowned in distress. “_Really_? Because I like him _so much_.”

“We liked him,” Andy said gently.

“He seemed cool,” Joe agreed. “He could talk intelligently about _Star Wars_. We liked him.”

“The problem is that you tend to do this,” said Andy.

“Do what?” asked Pete.

“Fall really hard and really fast for someone you barely know,” Joe finished frankly.

Pete frowned more. “I mean. I—” Pete wanted to deny it but…kind of couldn’t. He decided on, “What if Patrick’s different, though? Like, eventually there’s bound to be The One, right? Patrick might be The One. He’s pretty amazing. This time, I swear, it is going to last and last and last.”

Joe and Andy both looked dubious but at least Andy said, “I hope so.”

Pete didn’t know how to describe the way Patrick looked at him like he was too much to not look at and how that made Pete feel like he might not be too much in the end. Pete thought of the way Patrick looked at him, cool and warm at the same time, cautious and eager all at once. Pete was an expert when it came to eyes on him, he went to a lot of trouble to get eyes on him, and Patrick’s eyes on him seemed different than the way other people looked at him, seemed so complicated a gaze that maybe Patrick really would stick around for a while and play with the puzzle he seemed to see when he looked at Pete. Maybe Patrick wouldn’t see through him so quickly. Maybe Patrick wouldn’t get bored.

Maybe Pete was fucking imagining all of this and if he said, _Did you see the way he looked at me?_ Andy and Joe would give him pity looks.

Pete wasn’t letting them drag him down. They were just jealous because _they_ didn’t have a Patrick.

So Pete texted Patrick a gif of two sea otters hugging.

***

Patrick woke early in the morning, jolting awake to the sound of the kids next door giggling through the sprinkler. Connor was still snoring in the other bed, but Patrick was now wide awake, his hand still clutching his phone. He swiped it awake to look at Pete’s heart emoji text.

For a lot longer than he should have.

Then he got out of bed and took a shower.

While he was in the shower, he thought about Pete, which led to a somewhat longer shower than he had planned, and when he was done, breathless against the cool tile of the shower, the water getting colder as it sluiced over him, he had the crystal clear thought of how badly he wanted Pete, not just for the orgasm but also for this bit. This bit where only a few hours earlier he had been able to collapse onto Pete’s warm heat instead of the tiles’ hard coldness.

Patrick had never really had that thought before, the thought that the aftermath of an orgasm was so much nicer with a person to curl into and smile at, a _shared_ experience instead of solitary and insular. It seemed obvious but he supposed he’d never thought about how _much_ better it would be.

Patrick was actually annoyed when he turned the shower off. He’d wanted to start his day off on the right foot with a nice, easy jerk-off session remembering the hot sex from the night before, and instead now he was feeling lonely and mopey, what the fuck.

He pulled a band t-shirt on for Pete’s benefit, and felt even stupider, moping over him in the shower and now _dressing_ for him, what-the-fuck-ever, Pete was probably never going to contact him ever again, he’d been a laughably easy lay and Pete would dig a notch into his bedpost and move on to the next (much hotter) person he had lined up. No fucking doubt about it.

Still. Dimly aware that he should probably make up for the monumental mistake of sneaking off for stupid sex with stupid Pete, Patrick set about making his aunt pancakes.

When his aunt came into the kitchen, she said in shock, “What are you doing?”

Since Patrick had never willingly gotten out of bed before in this house, he understood the shock. He said, “I thought I’d make breakfast,” and scowled at the pancakes as if they’d personally offended him.

His aunt looked at him suspiciously. “Really?”

Patrick sighed. What did she want him to say? _I got a hand job from a hot guy and it was pretty amazing but now he’s never going to call me again and I’m mooning over him like a fucking teenager because I _am_ a fucking teenager_. Patrick paused in his mental diatribe. _And what the fuck is the age of consent in this state?_ he added silently.

“Patrick,” his aunt said.

He realized he’d lost the thread somewhere. “Huh?”

“I said, this is very nice of you.” His aunt beamed at him. “See? I knew there was a sweet, polite boy in there somewhere. You just had to make some friends. What did I tell you? Wait until I tell your mother.”

Patrick stared at her and wondered how this was his mom’s sister. His mom was going to snort in disbelief and say, _Patrick doesn’t make friends unless they’re completely inappropriate, much older people who sneak him into punk shows past curfew_. And. Well. Other than the fact that Pete had the world’s worst preset stations in his car leading Patrick to believe he had dubious taste in music, his mother’s assessment of the situation wouldn’t exactly be _wrong_.

His aunt said, “Now. You shouldn’t have run off last night without a word. You should have just told me you’d made friends.”

“I _did_,” Patrick reminded her.

She sighed and said, “I guess, but a little advance warning might have been nice. And maybe, I don’t know, _asking for permission_.”

Patrick’s eyeroll happened inside his head but it was epic. Patrick had learned early on never to ask for permission. Go and do the thing you wanted to do and deal with the punishment, was Patrick’s motto. It was the only way he’d ever gotten to do anything.

“But I’m glad you’re making friends,” she continued. “Will your friends be at the beach today?”

Patrick wanted to say _probably, but they won’t care about me_, and then his phone buzzed in his pocket, and when he took it out…it was a gif of two otters hugging. From Pete.

Patrick wasn’t sure how to interpret that gif but he did interpret happily the fact that Pete had woken up and texted him.

Patrick couldn’t help but break into a smile so wide it _hurt_ him. He didn’t think he’d smiled like that ever before in his life. His mother, who thought he was “sullen” and constantly complained over the faces he made in pictures, would have fainted.

Patrick said to his aunt, “Yeah. My friends are going to be at the beach.”

***

Patrick’s entire reason for _existence_ was to find Pete.

At least, that’s how it felt at the moment, because otherwise there was zero reason for him to be at the beach. He hated the beach. He was remembering exactly how much he hated the beach while trying to hide from the evil sun by wrapping himself up in beach towels.

His aunt said to him, “Stop behaving this way, it is literally embarrassing, this is probably why your friends haven’t come to find you.”

Patrick understood this was embarrassing. This was why he _didn’t go to the beach_. “The sun is _attacking me_,” he defended himself.

“So put on sunscreen.” His aunt shrugged at him.

Patrick didn’t understand why he’d managed to get the palest skin in the entire family. He blamed his unknown dad. _Thanks, Dad, for never being around and for the whole red hair and freckles thing, it’s all going so well!_

Connor kept saying things like, “Hey, are those your friends over there? What about there?” clearly avidly interested in who could have possibly wanted to fuck Patrick.

Considering Connor kept pointing out girls, Patrick thought it was interesting how very way off Connor was.

Meanwhile the lifeguard stand Patrick had insisted they sit near stayed stubbornly Pete-less, and the sun climbed higher in the sky, shone more fiercely, and Patrick pulled a trucker hat down low over his eyes in an attempt to save his poor nose.

His aunt said, “And where did you get that _hat_?”

“A store,” mumbled Patrick.

“It says ‘As seen on your mom,’” his aunt said disapprovingly, like maybe Patrick hadn’t read the hat before buying it.

That was the moment when Pete showed up, cheerful and wholesome-looking in his lifeguard get-up, with a fucking whistle around his neck. “Hello,” he said happily.

Patrick peered out at him from his blanket burrito. He was better-looking than Patrick had remembered. Fuck.

Connor and his aunt both gaped at him.

“Hello,” his aunt said finally. “Can we help you?” She looked around their area fretfully. “Are we doing something wrong?”

“Nope.” He popped the “p” with evident joy. “I came to see Patrick.”

“Hi,” Patrick croaked from within his blanket. _How the fuck_, he thought, _did you get that person to touch your dick?_

“Hello,” Pete said to him, grinning. He was wearing sunglasses so Patrick couldn’t see his eyes but he assumed they were grinning, too.

“Hang on,” said Aunt Carol, quizzical frown audible. “Are you Patrick’s friend?”

“I am indeed Patrick’s friend,” Pete said, in the tone of voice of a fucking choirboy. “I’m Pete.”

“Do you…go to school here?” Patrick could hear Aunt Carol trying to determine how old Pete was.

“Sure,” Pete said affably, with a little shrug. He looked back at Patrick. “Come for a swim.”

Patrick was literally wrapped up from head to toe. “A swim?” he said dubiously.

Pete nodded.

“Patrick, your friends are going swimming,” Aunt Carol informed him disapprovingly. “You should go swimming with them.”

“That’s right, Patrick,” Pete agreed solemnly. “Come swimming with me and all of our other friends, they’re waiting for us.”

Patrick glanced at Connor, who looked so incredibly disbelieving that it made Patrick sit up and wriggle out of his blanket cocoon. It didn’t matter that Patrick himself had just been wondering how he’d gotten this hot guy to pay attention to him, _Connor_ wasn’t allowed to doubt that Patrick could totally score someone this hot.

“Okay,” he said to Pete firmly. “Let’s go swimming.”

“Look at your band t-shirt,” Pete said in delight.

“Patrick, watch out for riptides,” Aunt Carol warned him.

“Don’t worry,” Pete assured her. “I’m totally certified.” He shook his whistle at her.

Patrick said, “Come _on_,” and started walking toward the water, and then started running because _fuck_, the sand was hot, no one had warned him how hot the sand was going to be. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said, as he reached the glorious cool of the wet sand. Running was not an attractive look for him, fucking hell.

Pete was apparently a very weird person because Pete said to him, “You were fucking hot emerging from your pile of blankets like that. It was like some kind of striptease. I liked it.”

“I think there’s something wrong with you,” Patrick informed him seriously.

Pete grinned at him and said, “Jesus, you’re cute. Come in the ocean with me so I can make out with you.”

That was a thing Patrick wanted very much. Enough to even go in the ocean. He took one step and a wave rushed up to lick at his ankles and it was like a thousand tiny frozen needles digging into his skin and he yelped, “_Fuck_,” and leaped backward, and a father helping a tiny little girl into the ocean like it was a perfectly normal temperature glared at him.

Pete was doubled over laughing.

Patrick said to him, “Was that a trick? That water is _sub-zero_. Like, we’re going to freeze to death in that water!”

“Patrick,” Pete managed, sweeping an arm out toward the crowded ocean, “everyone is doing just fine in the water.”

“Why do people go to the beach?” Patrick complained. “I mean it. Seriously. Look, there’s seaweed, and sand gets _everywhere_, it’s freezing, and it’s also too hot, all at the same time. Why do people do this?”

“Well, I do it because they pay me and sometimes I get to meet cute boys I can convince to make out with me in the ocean. You do it because you met this cute boy you’re going to make out with in the ocean.”

Patrick sighed. “Why in the _ocean_? Why can’t we make out on land? Actually, can’t we make out in a house? Or a car? That would be better.”

“Patrick, babe, we can make out in a house, in a car, with a mouse, in a bar—”

“What?” said Patrick.

“—but right _now_ my break’s not very long and your aunt’s right there and the ocean has that rock, see it out there, and we can get behind it and make out like teenagers.”

“I _am_ a teenager,” Patrick said. He thought he should make this clear in case Pete was under delusions otherwise.

“Yeah. But over sixteen, right?”

Patrick nodded.

“All good, then. I did _research_.” Pete looked proud of himself.

Patrick thought, _This is the kind of situation they warn you about in school_, and decided to jump right in because that was totally the type of person he was. He said, “If I am going to go in this ocean for you, I want, like, _credit_ for it,” and then winced, because that sounded stupid and young.

But Pete nodded earnestly at him. “Oh, yeah, absolutely, totally, I will give you the best head later, I promise.”

Which was enough to make Patrick decide the ocean sounded like a great idea.

“Also, Tricky, I promise I will warm you up in this ocean, hmm?” Pete pitched his voice low, that secret sex purr he’d used with him on the couch, and Patrick squeezed his eyes shut and ran into the ocean because otherwise he was going to be standing on the beach with an obvious erection.

Patrick eventually stumbled forward so that he was swimming, fighting against the waves coming into shore, and it wasn’t very deep, he could have knelt and had his head above water, but it was easier to swim than run. Pete splashed behind him, laughing like this was great fun instead of breathtakingly cold.

Patrick looked at him over his shoulder. “Do they, like, make you take classes in running into freezing cold water?”

“Absolutely,” Pete said.

Patrick thought of his aunt’s remarks the day before. “Do they teach you how to apply sunscreen?”

Pete grinned at him. “Babe, I am the _best_ at sunscreen application, don’t you worry your pale little head about that.” Then he took his sunglasses off entirely to duck underwater, coming up and shaking his head like a dog.

Patrick winced and tried to get himself out of splashing range. “You’re a disaster,” he told Pete.

“You love it,” said Pete, “come underwater with me.”

“I’m wearing a hat,” Patrick pointed out.

“Yes, you are, and it is such a great hat, I’ll hold it for you while you go under. And your glasses.” Pete kept swimming at Patrick as he spoke, Patrick retreating backward. They were out past the breaking point of the waves now, so that the waves were gently bobbing against them.

“Why is it so important to you that I go under the water?” Patrick asked, exasperated.

“Because then I can lick the salt off of you,” said Pete matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” Patrick managed, suddenly breathless, and then he said, “Okay, that sounds…” and handed his hat and glasses over in approval of how that sounded.

Pete grinned at him, glancing toward the shore and nudging him back a little bit. “Okay, now,” he said.

Patrick held his breath and ducked under. It was so unpleasantly cold that he came up gasping and he was going to complain except that Pete kissed him, and Pete kissed every complaint out of him, Pete pulled him in and up against him under the water, and the waves bobbed around them, and Patrick kissed back and kissed back.

“God,” Pete gasped, dropping kisses along Patrick’s cheeks and jaw, forehead and hairline, tongue rasping against the salt the way he’d promised, “fuck, you’re so, I can’t, _Patrick_.”

Patrick tilted his head this way and that, letting Pete pour kisses out over him and trying to lap up every single one, his hands in tight fists against Pete’s hips, his body plastered shamelessly up against him, throbbing and _wanting_.

“When can I see you again?” Pete demanded, his voice urgent and low, his hand down Patrick’s bathing suit, as if Patrick’s dick might be convinced to come out and play even in these subzero temperatures. “When can you come over?” Pete sipped water off the curve of Patrick’s shoulder, closed his mouth over the soaked cloth of Patrick’s band t-shirt and sucked. “I want to get you in a bed so fucking badly, you have no idea.”

Patrick thought he had an idea. It was absurd that Pete might want him in a bed as much as he wanted to be there, but Patrick gave himself that fantasy. “Pete,” he managed, head thrown back and gasping for air. “I…” He couldn’t think of anything to say in response, even though he knew he should say _something_. Pete was sensory overload again, his brain offered him nothing to say but “_Pete_” helplessly.

Pete made a noise, an approving sort of squeak. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m going to fuck you right up against these rocks like it’s the fucking _Little Mermaid_.”

“It’s way too cold for that,” Patrick panted. Apparently his brain wasn’t going to let him forget _that_.

Pete froze with his teeth under Patrick’s jaw, and then started laughing, collapsing against him, snorting laughter into his neck.

“I mean,” said Patrick, as Pete chortled against him and some brainpower re-entered the picture. “It’s true. Also. Nobody gets fucked against rocks in _The Little Mermaid_.”

“Maybe not in the G-rated version, but I only watch Pornhub versions of movies,” said Pete, still smiling into Patrick’s neck.

“That’s so charming,” said Patrick. “I’m so charmed.”

Pete snorted more laughter against him. “Come over tonight,” he said. “Please say you’ll come. I can’t possibly go without you for the evening.”

“I don’t…” Pete was mouthing against his neck, and it was very distracting. “I mean, I’ll come if I can. I don’t know if…” Fuck, there was no way to say this and not sound like a tiny child who had to ask for permission before leaving the house. He was so uncool and Pete was going to get so bored with this.

“It’s cool,” Pete said, as if it was, when Patrick knew it totally wasn’t. “Text me whenever you can get free, and I’ll be free.”

That seemed impossible. Patrick didn’t want to point out how absurd that was. Surely Pete was going to have so many better things to do than wait around for Patrick’s text. He said awkwardly, “Okay,” and hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

Pete said, “Should I talk to your aunt? Would that make things better? For her to see that I’m a very responsible lifeguard?”

_Who’s way older than me_, thought Patrick. “No,” he said quickly. “No, no. It’s fine. I’ll handle it.” _Somehow_, he added silently.

***

Patrick approached the prospect of wrangling an evening get-together with Pete out of his aunt like it was warfare. It required some kind of strategy on his part, he thought. How would he accomplish this?

He got back from being kissed pink in the ocean to only his aunt on the blanket.

“Both you and Connor have made friends,” she said, beaming at him. “Isn’t that nice?”

_Peachy_, thought Patrick, and covered himself up from the sun again. The salt drying on his body was itchy, and the beach without Pete actively making out with him faded back into annoyance.

Of course, he would handle the beach happily every day for the rest of this trip if it meant he got to make out with Pete.

Even better if it meant he got to have sex with Pete in the evenings.

Patrick was so busy trying to strategize how to get out of the house that night that he failed to anticipate Connor swooping in to rescue him.

“So,” Connor said casually, as they trailed in from the beach for the day, Patrick hot and sandy and cranky and only being saved by Pete’s text message of a horse running backward, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. “Patrick and I have been invited to go to a movie tonight.”

Patrick, startled, looked over at Connor.

Aunt Carol said, “What? Really?”

And Patrick was confused at the sudden offer of help, but caught on immediately. He nodded fervently. “Yup. We totally did.”

“What movie?” Aunt Carol asked.

“I don’t know.” Connor shrugged. “Whatever the rest of the group wants to see. Patrick and I are new, we don’t want to make waves.”

“Aw, I’m sure you’ll both be very popular,” Aunt Carol said sagely. “Making friends can be tricky, but you’re both so lovely and outgoing. You’ll have a wonderful time at the movies tonight.” And with that Aunt Carol disappeared into her room to shower the beach off.

Patrick, astonished at Connor’s helpfulness, followed him into their shared bedroom. “What was that all about?” he asked in a low voice, perplexed.

“Look,” Connor said, “don’t you want to get out of the house tonight?”

“Yes,” Patrick replied readily.

“Right. Me, too. The easiest way to get out is together, right? You go your way, I go mine. I met a whole group of hot girls who said they’d be down by the seawall all night. I can drop you off wherever so you can make out with your lifeguard guy some more, and then pick you back up later, and the deal will be that my mom never has any idea we’re not constantly together keeping each other out of trouble or whatever. So. Good idea?”

Patrick couldn’t _believe_ how rude he’d been about Connor in his head. “_Best_ idea,” he said breathlessly.

“Uh-huh.” Connor looked like he knew how uncharitable Patrick had been about him in his head. “By the way. You could have just told me you were gay. I’m kind of offended you thought I would care.”

Patrick hesitated. “The label is something I’m not… I don’t know, it’s kind of new.”

“Well, it’s cool.” Connor shrugged. “My mom wouldn’t care, either.”

Patrick considered. “I thought mostly she would care about how old he is.”

“Well,” said Connor, and shrugged again. “Yeah, okay, good point.”

Connor headed off to the bathroom to snag the first shower, and Patrick texted Pete. _Want to hang out tonight?_

Pete texted back immediately. _What time?_

Patrick smiled.

***

Pete got Patrick’s text and immediately started thinking about what their date ought to look like. Because _yes_, there had to be a date. There should have been a date to begin with. It was inexcusable that Pete hadn’t started with a date. Patrick was a sweetheart and Pete had made him come on the couch and then given him a soiled t-shirt to clean up with. Like, really, even _Pete_ could do better than that.

“Patrick is coming over,” Pete told Joe and Andy, “for a date.”

“Oh, no,” said Joe. “We know what ‘date’ means for the two of you.”

“There might not be sex,” Pete said primly. “I am going to be a _gentleman_. I am going to _romance_ him.”

“You’re going to blow him,” said Joe bluntly, killing a couple of people on Fortnite.

“Mmm,” said Pete, allowing himself to consider it briefly. “Maybe.”

Andy rolled his eyes, watching Joe’s game. “We don’t want to know about your sex life. That is exactly why the no-sex-on-the-couch rule exists. Why don’t you go upstairs?” he asked Joe.

“Because I’m the one who didn’t _die_ immediately,” Joe retorted.

Pete opened and closed the fridge, pointlessly, because he knew there wasn’t any edible food in it.

Joe said, “When does lover boy show up? Do I have time to beat Andy’s ass at another round of Fortnite?”

“Yeah,” Pete said absently, flipping through take-out menus, and then added, “You don’t have to leave. I don’t want to kick you out.”

“Trust us,” mumbled Joe, “we want to leave.”

Andy said after a moment, “I’m glad he’s coming over again. Patrick, I mean.”

Pete knew what Andy really meant was _wow, Pete, you haven’t driven this kid away yet with your clinginess? _But, hey, there was still plenty of time for that.

Or else Patrick was The One who wouldn’t care or would find Pete completely bearable.

Pete shrugged like he didn’t have the highest hopes in the universe. “Should be fun,” he said negligently.

Andy gave him a look that said he was contemplating what Pete was going to be like when his high hopes were dashed.

***

Patrick felt vaguely embarrassed about _everything_. That was apparently going to be his life from now on. He was vaguely embarrassed by how knowingly Connor seemed to smirk at him the entire time Patrick was giving directions, and vaguely embarrassed by Connor saying, “Ooh, is that him?” every time Patrick got a text notification (yes, it was always Pete, sending another random gif or emoji), and _definitely_ embarrassed when Connor said, “My mom said to watch out for each other, so I should probably ask if you have any condoms on you.”

“Fuck off,” Patrick mumbled, cursing Connor for the blush he knew would be infecting him now, as he got out of the car and walked up to Pete’s front door.

Connor didn’t wait to make sure Pete answered, and Patrick was relieved. It would have been embarrassing for Pete to answer and greet him with…however he was going to greet him, no matter what it was, in front of Connor. It would have been even more embarrassing if Pete didn’t answer.

Pete answered. He was dressed in sweatpants that it looked like he had converted into shorts himself, and a t-shirt that read _Lifeguards do it on the beach_.

Patrick regarded the t-shirt and said, “How many inappropriate lifeguard t-shirts do you own?”

“Excuse me,” said Pete, “you have a dirty mind, this is a perfectly appropriate shirt.” And then Pete grinned, that blindingly open grin he had that lit his face into next-level attractiveness. “Hello, Patrick,” he purred, “it’s good to see you, how many band t-shirts do you own,” and then he closed a hand into the front of Patrick’s t-shirt and pulled him in for a slow, lingering kiss.

Patrick had the dim thought that they should probably be inside for a kiss like this but it was a _very_ dim thought, buried deep underneath the more pressing thoughts of the way Pete’s tongue could make his fucking toes curl.

Pete was the one who ended the kiss. Patrick probably would have never ended it. Patrick stood stupidly on Pete’s front step, wanting to be kissed again, as Pete leaned their foreheads together. Pete was taking harsh breaths; Patrick licked his lips.

“I was supposed to get you inside first,” Pete managed. “I was supposed to—actually, a lot of things. I was supposed to do a lot of things. But you’ve got this fucking _mouth_ here…”

“Uh-huh,” said Patrick. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Patrick could hear the smile in Pete’s voice. “You don’t, huh?”

Patrick, to prove how much he didn’t mind, kissed Pete again.

“Hmm,” Pete mumbled into the kiss, tugging Patrick inside and closing the door as he spoke, “you really don’t mind.”

Patrick shook his head, not enough to stop the kiss, just enough to respond. “You can kiss me—and kiss me—and kiss me—” He felt like an idiot saying it, no matter how true it was.

Even more like an idiot when Pete pulled back from the kiss.

“I mean,” Patrick said, and tried to think of what to say that would make him sound cooler and not seventeen and desperate to be kissed well.

“I’m going to kiss you a lot once we decide what to eat,” Pete said, and then stepped away from Patrick, going into the kitchen.

Patrick was confused. “What to eat?”

“Patrick,” said Pete, walking back over to him and handing him delivery menus. “Did you think I was going to walk you straight to my bed?”

_Yes_, Patrick almost said.

Pete went on grandly, “I am the soul of romance, you know. So. What do you want? Pizza or Chinese? I know we just had pizza so I was leaning toward Chinese.”

“Chinese works,” said Patrick, caught off-guard, because he’d assumed Pete just wanted to make out and then hopefully more than make out, and now he didn’t know what to do if Pete wanted to eat Chinese food and, presumably, talk. Patrick had nothing interesting to say. Patrick was incredibly boring. Pete was going to figure it out and never touch his dick ever again. Great.

“We don’t have to eat,” Patrick blurted out, as Pete dialed the restaurant. “I mean, we can just, like, do…whatever.” Patrick made some kind of half-hearted gesture with his hand. Pete was _definitely_ never touching his dick again.

Pete said blankly, “Huh?” and then said their order into his cell phone, and then looked quizzically at Patrick after hanging up. “Did you eat already? That’s cool. I can send you home with leftovers for tomorrow. Your aunt will love them.”

Patrick had not eaten. Patrick would in fact like to eat. Patrick had backed himself into a fucking stupid corner here. “Sure,” he said weakly.

“Now we can get on to the main event.” Pete clapped his hands together in glee.

Patrick wondered what he was supposed to do. The night before had been so feverish that the whole thing had seemed easy. Having to make a move toward sex now, when they weren’t touching, when Patrick was very clear-headed, seemed impossible. Should he just take his shirt off? The sight of Patrick’s chest was probably the last thing that would make Pete want to fuck him. Should he just take his shorts off? And then be left with a shirt on and no shorts? That seemed even more absurd.

Then Pete brushed right past Patrick, which made all of Patrick’s angsting over undressing seem ridiculous. Pete wasn’t even _thinking_ about undressing Patrick. Pete went over to the television and fiddled with it before stepping back. “Ta-da!” Pete announced. “The main event.” He looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

Patrick stared at the television, thrown, then said slowly, “Oh, my God, are we actually going to watch _The Little Mermaid_?”

Pete nodded happily. “The cartoon version. Where apparently nobody fucks on the rocks or something.”

“Nobody fucks on the rocks, I promise,” said Patrick, dazed by this turn of events. Had Pete asked him over here to watch _Disney movies_?

“So you _say_,” said Pete, as if Patrick was definitely wrong. “Once this is done we’ll watch the Pornhub version and you can tell me which one you prefer, how’s that?” Pete took Patrick’s hand and pulled him over to the couch, looking mischievous and naughty, and honestly, Patrick knew Pete was older than him but at this particular moment the age difference seemed nonexistent. Pete did not seem like an older guy out of Patrick’s league; he seemed like a silly dork who Patrick could definitely get used to hanging out with.

What a fucking devastatingly dangerous thought.

“Okay, okay, _so_,” said Pete, settling on the couch next to Patrick. “When’s the last time you saw this movie?”

“I was probably four or something,” said Patrick. “When was your last time?”

“Last week,” Pete said.

Patrick blinked at him.

“Oh, wait, are we talking about the Pornhub version or the cartoon version?” Pete grinned at him, irrepressible.

Patrick said, “You’re impossible to talk to. Talking to you is exactly like all of those random gifs you keep sending me.”

Pete laughed. “That’s awesome. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

“I really hope not,” Patrick said, in sincere alarm.

Pete laughed again. “What do you think happened to Ariel’s mom?”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about, those subject changes,” Patrick said.

“There are weird theories online about Ariel’s mom,” Pete went on.

Patrick said, “You are really into this movie.”

“It’s a lifeguard thing,” said Pete seriously.

Patrick couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“I’m just saying,” Pete went on, “it’s never explained, what happened to Ariel’s mom. There should be a prequel.”

“A prequel about Ariel’s mom dying?” said Patrick skeptically.

“That’s a really negative viewpoint, Patrick,” Pete told him. “Maybe she just divorced the dad to go off and live her best mermaid life somewhere else.”

“Maybe she fell in love with a human, too,” Patrick mused. “And went off and got herself legs, just like Ariel.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Pete said approvingly.

“And then Ariel might, like, run into her mother on land. Do you think she’d recognize her? Did she know her?” Patrick couldn’t understand why he was warming to this topic, and it seemed ridiculous, but Pete looked very interested in the conversation, thoughtful about the absurdity of it, so Patrick didn’t even feel embarrassed.

“See, there’s a lot to think about here,” said Pete, and then suddenly snuggled close against Patrick, tucking his head against Patrick’s neck.

Patrick was startled by the movement. Also startled by how, well, _snuggly_ it was. He’d expected sex and he was getting cuddling and he was…okay with it. Pete was nicely solid against him, a hot boy who wanted to be near him, it was unexpectedly marvelous in ways Patrick hadn’t anticipated. Everything about Pete was unanticipated to Patrick, but in a way that seemed incredible at every turn.

Pete murmured after a moment, “Thank you for that.”

Patrick wondered with a brief flash of panic if he’d said any of his inner monologue out loud. “For what?” he asked carefully.

“For going along with that conversation. For not thinking it was stupid.”

Patrick considered. He hadn’t thought it was stupid. He’d been worried Pete might. He said, “It wasn’t stupid. I never thought about Ariel’s mom before.”

Pete breathed against him, soft, steady breaths, and Patrick after a moment’s hesitation slid his arm around his shoulders to settle him more closely. Pete sighed, sounding pleased, and Patrick concentrated on not betraying how _nice_ he found this foolishly simple thing.

On the screen, Ariel was in her grotto, about to start singing.

And Pete started singing along.

If you could call that singing.

“Look at this stuff,” sang Pete. “Isn’t it neat?” He pulled away from Patrick, giving him a playful look, while Patrick knew he couldn’t help the fact that he was _aghast_. “Wouldn’t you think my collection’s complete?”

“What are you doing?” Patrick managed to ask.

Pete grinned, pushing Patrick back against the couch, and Patrick, went, unresisting, because he was too fascinated (in a horrified way) by Pete’s rendition of this song to think about anything else at the moment. “Wouldn’t you think I’m the girl, the girl who has _everything_?” sang Pete, breathy on the last word, and then kissed Patrick, short and sweet, before pulling back. “Sing with me, Patrick.”

“Pete,” Patrick tried to complain but more like encouraged, leaning up for more of his mouth.

“Come on, you know the words,” Pete cajoled. “But who cares?” he sang with Ariel. “No big deal.” He scraped his teeth behind Patrick’s ear, a spot Patrick had never had touched before and he had not realized was so insistently attached to his dick.

“I want more,” Patrick sang, for some stupid, ridiculous reason, out of his mind with Pete’s mouth and hands on him. He sang it and he _meant_ it.

Pete stilled, and then sat up and stared down at Patrick, the exact opposite reaction of the one Patrick had wanted.

Patrick felt himself blush embarrassingly and wished he could hide himself in the couch.

Then Pete said, “_Patrick_,” in some tone of voice that Patrick couldn’t entirely place but liked a whole lot.

Patrick blinked, startled by that tone, and said uncertainly, “What?”

“Hang on.” Pete turned to the movie, where Ariel was finding the word for _street_. He turned back to Patrick. “Sing some more to me.”

Patrick drew his eyebrows together. “What? Pete—”

“Up where they stay all day in the sun,” Pete sang horribly.

Patrick winced. “Ugh, no, please stop.”

“You do it,” Pete urged him.

Patrick sighed and turned his head to watch the movie, trying to let his memory recall the words to this song from the deep part of your brain that never forgot the lyrics you learned when you were four.

“What would I give if I could live out of these waters?” sang Patrick. “What would I pay to spend a day warm on the sand?” Patrick sneaked a glance at Pete, who was open-mouthed at him. It…seemed like a good reaction? Patrick was confused. “Bet you on land, they understand, bet they don’t reprimand their daughters. Bright young women, sick of swimming, ready to stand.”

Pete paused the movie and Patrick stopped singing, looking away from the frozen screen. “Patrick, what the _fuck_, your _voice_,” said Pete.

“Um,” said Patrick, not sure what else to say.

“You can _sing_,” said Pete.

“Well, yeah.” Patrick shrugged. “I mean…yeah. Of course. That’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal? _Not a big deal_? Patrick, your voice is _incredible_. Patrick. Tricky. Trickster. Trick-a-boombastic. We need to talk.”

“Huh?” said Patrick, confused by the look on Pete’s face now, calculating and shrewd.

And then there was a knock on the door.

“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” said Pete, scrambling to his feet. “Hold all the thoughts.”

“I’m not having any thoughts,” said Patrick blankly. What the fuck was going on? He half-sat up on the couch, feeling foolish, to watch Pete accept and pay for the food. Should he have offered to pay something for that? “Hey,” he said awkwardly, “how much do I owe—”

“Come with me,” Pete said briskly, marching out of the room with the food, down the hallway Patrick assumed led to his bedroom.

Patrick swallowed. “Oh, right, yeah, okay,” he said to the empty room, and took a deep breath and told his dick not to embarrass him and followed Pete down the hall.

Pete was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a laptop in front of him, taking cartons out of the bag of food to spread out on his bed. Patrick hesitated in the doorway, caught the chopsticks Pete tossed at him.

“Come here,” Pete said, like crawling onto Pete’s bed was nothing momentous. “I want to show you something.” He stuck a piece of sweet and sour chicken in his mouth, left his chopsticks hanging out between his lips like very long cigars, and tapped away at his laptop.

Patrick sat gingerly next to him on the bed, wondering if he was about to be subjected to the Pornhub version of _The Little Mermaid_.

He wasn’t. It was a YouTube video. Cell phone footage of a punk band performing. It was…

Patrick leaned closer to the laptop. “That’s _you_.” Because that was unmistakably Pete on the stage, screaming into the microphone.

“Did you think you were the only one who likes music, Trick?” said Pete smugly, snagging another piece of chicken.

Patrick glanced at him in amazement, pulling the laptop closer to him. “You’re in a band? Why didn’t you say?”

“We haven’t done a whole lot of talking, cookie jar,” Pete remarked.

Patrick blushed but didn’t look away from the video, watching avidly. It wasn’t great music but Pete was ridiculously hot on stage, and Patrick was thinking, _What the fuck, you’re sitting on this guy’s bed with him?_

“Also,” Pete continued, “I wanted to seduce you _fairly_.”

Patrick gave him a dubious look. “What’s that mean?”

“I knew you were into music. I didn’t want to be one of those dudes who’s all like, ‘You like music? I’m in a band. Sexy, right?’”

“When you say it like that,” Patrick informed him, “it’s not at all sexy.”

Pete laughed. “No kidding. So I don’t run around telling cute boys I like that I’m in a band, it’s obnoxious. Not even cute boys with Bowie t-shirts on.”

“Seducing me ‘fairly’ involved, what, lifeguard double entendre shirts?” said Patrick.

“Hey, don’t even pretend you aren’t thoroughly seduced,” Pete protested.

“Don’t pretend it took _effort_ on your part,” Patrick retorted, and then realized how that sounded and shut his mouth.

Pete grinned at him and said, “So what do you think?” gesturing at the laptop.

Patrick looked back at the YouTube video and considered what to say. _You’re really hot, but the music’s terrible_?

Pete apparently read his thoughts. “You are such a fucking snob,” Pete said, sounding delighted by it. “I am going to fuck you so thoroughly that you forget to turn your nose up at me and I cannot _wait_ for that, but first, tell me about your band.”

Patrick was distracted by the first part of that statement, and then tripped over the last bit. “Oh, I don’t have a band,” he had to admit.

“With a voice like that?” Pete was disbelieving. “How the fuck can that be?”

“I’ve been in stupid bands that wouldn’t—” Patrick didn’t want to say _that wouldn’t listen to the music I was writing_, even though that was the truth. He stumbled over his words, then course-corrected to, “I don’t sing, Pete, my voice isn’t that big a deal, you’re being ridiculous. I’m a drummer.”

“A drummer? Yeah, okay.” Pete smirked at him. 

“No, I’m serious,” Patrick said, “listen.” He pulled Pete’s laptop over to him and navigated to his Soundcloud account and pressed play.

Yeah, okay, there were drums on this track.

“That’s me drumming,” Patrick said.

There was also a guitar, though.

Pete, listening, said thoughtfully, “Who’s playing the guitar?”

And Patrick had to admit, “Me.”

And then Patrick started singing.

“Oh, and look, there you are singing.” Pete smiled at him. “What the _fuck_, Patrick, you’re unbelievable. What song is this, I don’t think I know it.”

“No?” said Patrick, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“It’s good,” said Pete. “I like it. Who does it?”

And then Patrick had to admit the next thing. “Me.”

Pete looked at him without comprehension. “Right,” he said. “You and who else?’

“No, just me. It’s my song.”

There was a moment of silence. Patrick looked at Pete’s laptop, even though there was nothing to really see. Patrick’s song swelled out of the laptop’s speakers, Patrick’s voice climbing up to the high notes.

Pete said, “You wrote this song?”

Patrick nodded.

Pete said fervently, “_Motherfucker_, Patrick, we have a lot to talk about.”

***

Patrick, sitting on his bed like the most delicious dessert, looked skeptically at Pete and said, “No, wait, run that by me again.”

Pete grinned at him. Patrick was _adorable_. He was adorable the way he was so suspicious about everything. He was adorable the way he pretended Pete didn’t make sense. He was adorable the way he was scrunching up his face at Pete right now. Pete could sit and look at Patrick like this _forever_.

“Hang on,” Pete said, and grabbed his cell phone and took Patrick’s picture without warning, just so, yes, he could sit and stare at him forever.

Patrick made another delicious face and Pete was sad his camera missed it. “What are you doing?”

“You’re the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,” Pete replied honestly.

Patrick said, “I don’t know if ‘adorable’ is—no, I’m not letting you change the subject. I’m not a singer.”

“Patrick.” Pete tossed his cell phone onto the nightstand and began stacking leftover Chinese food cartons over there, too. He hadn’t expected Patrick to immediately embrace Pete’s proposal because Patrick was a wary individual, but he hadn’t expected Patrick’s protest to take quite this shape. “You’re very obviously a singer.”

“No, I’m a drummer,” Patrick repeated, “and I’m, like, a composer, I mean, kind of, I write music, but what I mean is, I’m not a _singer_.”

“I’ve got this band,” Pete said again patiently, because he’d just gone over this with Patrick. “And it needs a singer. Don’t you think it needs a singer?” Pete gestured to his laptop, then closed it and put it on the floor next to the bed.

Patrick had that look on his face Pete was growing to recognize as _I don’t want to insult you, but…_

Pete grinned, “Okay, so, it needs a singer. And look what I have in front of me!” Pete made jazz hands in Patrick’s direction. “A singer!”

Patrick scowled. “No. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Not a singer. _Not_ a singer. Just a—”

“Don’t say ‘drummer,’ you’re not, anyway, Andy’s the drummer, we don’t need a drummer.”

“Andy’s the drummer?”

“And Joe’s lead guitar.”

“And you’re the singer?” said Patrick.

“I play bass,” Pete corrected him.

A frown flickered over Patrick’s face. “You’re the singer.”

“No, _you’re_ the singer.” Pete tipped Patrick backward, up against the wall at the head of the bed.

Patrick said, “I don’t sing, Pete.”

“Yeah, you do.” Pete bit that spot on Patrick’s collarbone that made him squeak, listened to the squeak and then the sigh that followed, Patrick’s hand coming up to cup Pete’s head. “You should say you’ll be in my band,” Pete murmured, and stuck a hand down Patrick’s pants.

Patrick bumped his head against the wall when he threw it back, not that he seemed to notice. He panted, “This is coercion. Or something.”

“It’s going to be a blowjob once you say yes,” Pete promised, and pushed Patrick’s shirt up so he could bite at a nipple.

“_Oh_, fuck,” gasped Patrick, jerking underneath Pete.

It made Pete go a little cross-eyed, how much he wanted Patrick. He pressed his nose into Patrick’s chest and breathed him in, dizzy on the scent of him, and mumbled, “Jesus, Patrick, you kill me.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Patrick said, in time with Pete’s teasing pulls on his cock. “Could we—” Patrick groaned when Pete pulled his hand away to adjust their positions, and then Pete couldn’t resist kissing that gorgeous mouth. He loved the way Patrick kissed back, like Pete made him drunk, like Pete made him ravenous, like Pete made him _want_ so much. Pete always thought he’d be able to kiss Patrick briefly and then move on, but when Patrick kissed back Pete always thought that maybe he’d just live in this kiss forever. “Could we learn some of my songs to play, too?” Patrick managed, into Pete’s mouth.

Pete smiled against him. “Baby, we can learn all your songs.”

“This is such fucking coercion,” said Patrick thickly, even as he threw his arms around Pete to pull him in, cling to him more closely.

“Unfair seduction,” Pete agreed gravely, tasting Patrick’s racing pulse.

“No, I’m not being coerced into the sex, I’m being coerced into the _band_,” said Patrick.

Pete laughed and bit Patrick’s lower lip. “You’re going to love it, I promise,” he whispered into his ear.

“How will Joe and Andy feel about this?” asked Patrick, as Pete wriggled his way downward.

“No, I wasn’t talking about the band. You’re going to love the _blowjob_,” Pete clarified, dragging his fingertips down Patrick’s chest, with just enough force for Patrick to feel the scrape of Pete’s nails. “I’m sure you’ll love the band, too, but let’s do one thing at a time, hmm?” Pete followed the teasing path of his fingers with his tongue, looking up at Patrick as he did it. Patrick already looked completely wrecked, and pure lust rippled through Pete like a wave racing up onto the shore, so eager to break.

Pete hadn’t really gotten to see Patrick’s cock that first time on the couch. He’d mapped the size and shape of it with his hand but he hadn’t gotten to blatantly admire it. So he let himself look his fill now. He liked, after all, to know what he was working with.

“Jesus,” Patrick snapped shakily, “would you get on with it?”

Pete smirked, watching Patrick’s dick twitch in reaction. “Patrick, you have a very lovely cock,” he said conversationally, walking his fingers up it playfully.

Patrick, breathing harshly, said, “Great.”

Pete smiled at Patrick’s dick because if he smiled at Patrick like that, soppy and besotted, Patrick might spook and run a million miles away from him. So Pete was soppy and besotted in the direction of Patrick’s splendid erection, and then he choked down any soppy and besotted words he might have tried to say by smothering them with Patrick’s cock.

Patrick clawed at Pete’s shoulders, hands digging in, and Pete angled his gaze upwards so he could see him, head thrown back, gasping, and Pete was pretty sure he was saying, “Pete, Pete,” in frantic tiny whispers.

Pete pulled off and said, “Shout it, I want to fucking hear you,” before ducking back down.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Patrick said, thrashing under Pete, and then, “Pete. _Pete_,” which was really what Pete had wanted. He made an approving hum around Patrick’s dick and Patrick gasped and pulled at his hair and begged more urgently, in a babbling stream, “Petepetepete.”

_Scream it_, Pete thought, squeezing his eyes shut to concentrate on what he was doing and also on not rutting helplessly against the bed underneath him so he could come, too. _Scream my name for me_, he thought, trying to suck it out of him.

Patrick’s cell phone started ringing from the pocket of the jeans Pete had shoved off of him, breaking Pete’s rhythm.

Patrick yanked at Pete’s head to make sure he didn’t go anywhere, making him choke, but Patrick was too far gone to apologize, Patrick said, “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop, Pete, I need I need I need.” It was a crescendo, Pete thought, beautifully in tune, rising tighter and tighter, and Patrick’s phone stopped ringing and then started up again and Patrick said, “ohfuckohfuckohfuck, _Pete_,” and hit the high note, and came.

***

Patrick could tell he was a sweaty, disheveled mess on Pete’s bed – he could feel the hair plastered messily to his forehead, his t-shirt bunched damply under him – but he didn’t care. Yes, Pete was fucking hot and never looked anything less than gorgeous and Patrick was a melted puddle of a blobby pale human with a sunburn and freckles, but Patrick was floating on a high like nothing he’d ever felt before and he wasn’t moving.

“Look at you,” Pete murmured, dragging his nose up Patrick’s chest, and then he actually _licked_ the sweat off of Patrick’s neck. “Jesus Christ, fucking look at you, all undone for me. I am going to wreck you in a million different ways, Trickster.”

Patrick shivered a little, not from cold but from _hot_, from Pete’s hands on him, from Pete’s mouth on his.

“No, really, Jesus Christ,” Pete muttered again, into Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick realized dimly that he was jerking himself off against him.

“No,” Patrick protested, trying to dodge Pete’s mouth. “No. No.”

Pete moved away. “What—”

Patrick managed to clumsily tackle Pete over onto his back, saying, “I want to,” batting Pete’s hands away from his dick.

Pete looked up at him, his eyes wide and dark, and whispered, “Christ, yes, do it.”

Patrick’s phone was still ringing and it was distracting him when he was trying to figure out how to give Pete the best hand job of his entire life, this was fucking _important_, so he reached for it with one hand while getting the other around Pete. It was Connor, and Patrick barked into it, “Give me ten minutes,” and then ended the call and dropped the phone on the bed next to him.

“Ten minutes,” Pete panted, hips already arching up to meet Patrick’s tentative strokes, “is so optimistic of you, Patrick, thank you.”

“Shh,” Patrick said, concentrating, watching the way his hand moved over Pete. His mouth was watering and he wanted very badly to get it involved in the action but he wasn’t confident enough of his blowjob abilities and he wanted this to be as good for Pete as he could possibly get it. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Make me,” gasped Pete, and Patrick halted the rhythm he’d started. Pete made a sharp sound of protest and said, “Fuck, please, keep going, faster.”

“Hey,” Patrick said, laying a finger against Pete’s mouth to hush him. Pete’s eyes seemed to go even wider than they had been. “Quiet,” he ordered, because he wanted Pete beyond witty repartee.

Pete blinked. And came.

Patrick looked down at his hand in surprise, now covered in come, and then up at Pete, who said breathlessly, “Jesus fuck, what the fuck was _that_?”

“I have no idea,” Patrick said honestly.

“Use that tone with me whenever you want, that works, that works, God,” Pete managed, grabbing for Patrick to pull him in for wet, messy, uncoordinated kisses. “I mean, _Jesus Christ_, Patrick, that took me by surprise, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Patrick said, trying to meet all of Pete’s sloppiness in the kisses. He had clearly not been a disappointing hand job, which he had been so worried about.

Pete, after a second, gave up on kissing just to lean back and smile at Patrick. Yeah, definitely not disappointed, Patrick thought, with a slice of undeniable pride. He had never had a boy look at him this way before, and the fact that it was _Pete _doing it literally made him feel dizzy with desire. Patrick had just had the most dazzling orgasm of his entire life and he was still thinking of just jerking off right on Pete’s chest, Pete would definitely let him if he—

Patrick’s phone rang again.

“Fuck,” Pete said, his mouth twisting into a scowl. “Seriously, who the fuck—” With energy Patrick would not have predicted, he grabbed Patrick’s phone up off the bed. “Who’s Connor?”

“My cousin, he’s—”

Pete answered the phone. “Connor. Yo. Back off, dude, and give me, like, a few minutes of afterglow, Jesus.” Then he tossed the phone aside.

Patrick stared with his mouth hanging open for a second, and then said, “_Pete_,” aghast.

“Oh, please, he knows you’re in here getting laid,” Pete mumbled, pulling Patrick in against him.

Patrick supposed that was true. And also, Pete was so warm and _there_, wanting him, _wanting_ him, pulling Patrick to sprawl over him. It was sweaty and gross but Patrick was finding his definition of “gross” wavering, it was hard to feel gross when Pete was mouthing softly behind his ear, when Pete’s hand was caught casually in his hair.

“Patrick, Patrick,” Pete murmured, his voice sounding gorgeously sex-thick, even now. “Why must you always run off as soon as you come? You’re like the Cinderella of orgasms. It makes me very sad. Don’t turn into a pumpkin, stay here.”

Patrick thought it was going to kill him to say it but he took a deep breath and said, “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.” The more he said it, the easier it got, so he propped himself up and said, “You know, you would have had more cuddle time if you hadn’t insisted on ordering food and watching _The Little Mermaid_.”

Pete pouted a little. “Patrick, it’s a date, I had to feed you. I don’t want you to think I expect you to put out before dinner.”

Patrick would totally put out before dinner. He’d _prefer_ to put out before dinner.

That must have shown on his face, because Pete laughed and tugged him into a kiss. “Trickster, you spoil me, next time I am going to get our shirts off before orgasms, how’s that for a promise, hmm?”

Patrick made a sound that he wanted to be dubious and instead sounded hopeful, because, wow, he really wanted to take Pete’s shirt off, how had he _still_ not accomplished it?

“So,” Pete said around kisses. “Cookie jar. Listen. Say you’ll be in my band—and come be hot and sexy—at every single practice—I’ll just stand off to the side useless with my perpetual hard-on while you’re so very—very—hot—and sexy—”

“Stop it,” Patrick mumbled, but he couldn’t get up the energy to blush furiously when Pete was slowly sinking him further into the bed, his kisses relentless.

“Be in my band,” Pete said, and whispered wickedly in Patrick’s ear. “You know you want to.”

The thing was: Patrick really wanted to. Patrick missed being in a band. Patrick longed for a band. But he was _particular_ about bands. He was _picky_. That’s how he thought of it, anyway. The people he’d been in bands with had other names for what he was.

“You’ll really give my music a try?” he clarified, trying not to sound as needy about it as he felt.

Pete lifted his head and smiled down at him. “Patrick, you are the only person I know who sounds like that over music instead of some quality dick attention, but yes. Your music. I want to hear your music.”

Patrick chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully.

Pete watched the movement, making a small noise.

Patrick said, “Only if Joe and Andy agree. I’m not trespassing on the band.”

“You think Joe and Andy won’t be _delighted_ to have a singer who’s not me?” said Pete. “Trust me. They’re going to be psyched.”

“Ugh,” said Patrick, “I’m going to be a terrible singer, you’re ridiculous—”

“Shh, shh,” said Pete, and kissed him. “So excited to have you in our band, Tricky. Our Fourth of July show is going to be awesome.” Pete lavished attention on a particularly good spot on Patrick’s neck.

Patrick thought hazily, _Yup, yup, Fourth of July, fireworks, sounds about right, Fourth of—_“Hang on,” Patrick said, pulling Pete’s head up. “Fourth of July? That’s next week!”

Pete grinned at him, unconcerned. “Yup. Cool, right? I mean, it’s just this barbecue for this house full of frat boys but, like, it’s a gig!”

“It’s a gig _next week_,” said Patrick. “How are we going to perform _next week_?”

“Patrick, we’ll be fine, you worry too much.” Patrick’s phone started ringing again and Pete reached for it. “Oh, look, it’s your cousin Connor again.” Pete answered the phone. “Connor, my man, you are a prince and I am sending him out to you as we speak.” Pete hung up and rolled off of Patrick. “Come on. Up you get. Your cousin’s anxious.”

“Pete,” said Patrick. “How are we—”

“Practice,” Pete said, pulling Patrick up. “It’s called ‘practice.’ And it makes perfect. I don’t know if you know.” Pete pulled his shirt off to do some half-assed form of clean-up, that Patrick didn’t help much with partly because most of his brain was freaking out about becoming a sudden lead singer _next week_ and the rest of his brain was offline because of Pete’s stupid chest.

“You’ve got to wear your shirt during practice,” Patrick told him.

Pete laughed. “Done. Off you go. I’ll see you tomorrow at practice. I’ll text you the details.”

Patrick wanted to protest but Pete had already dragged him through the main room and shoved him out the door.

Patrick took a deep breath, feeling shell-shocked, and then walked to Connor’s car.

Connor gave him a leer. “And how was your evening?”

“I think I joined a band,” said Patrick.

***

Pete spent hours lost on Patrick’s Soundcloud page. Because Patrick was… Patrick was _good_. His voice was spectacular and his songs were somehow even better? Pete couldn’t get over it. How had he stumbled over this kid on the _beach_? What if Patrick hadn’t been adorably sulking over the sun in the shadow of the lifeguard stand? What if Pete had somehow _not had this in his life_? It was unthinkable.

Pete texted Patrick: _ur unthinkable_. Patrick texted back: _??? Thanks? Your texts are interesting_. Pete sent back a random gif of a pineapple being sliced because he was too focused on Patrick’s songs to keep up the conversation.

He listened to Patrick’s soaring songs and pondered the way they made his body feel too small for his feelings. He left them playing in the background on endless repeat while he raided his notebooks, replacing some of Patrick’s more terrible lyrics with phrases here and there. This was how Pete knew he was totally objective here: He thought Patrick’s lyrics were terrible.

Pete left his bedroom, finding Joe and Andy sitting in darkness in the living room interrupted only by the flash of the Fortnite game.

“Guys,” Pete said. “Guys, guys, guys, guys, guys.”

“Nope,” Joe said, shaking his head, eyes not leaving the television. “Not right now, we’re in the middle of something.”

“This is important,” Pete said. “This is _urgent_.”

“Pete,” said Andy equably, “the last time you said something was urgent, it was when you learned how to spell ‘avocado.’”

“Yeah, no, this is _really urgent_,” said Pete. “I got our band a new singer.”

That got him some attention. Joe and Andy both turned to stare at him.

“What?” said Andy.

“I thought you were going to stay in and corrupt that poor child all night,” said Joe.

Pete scowled. “He is _totally legal_, you know, and like seven million times more mature than I am.”

“Yeah, but that’s not hard,” Andy pointed out.

“And, anyway, _he’s_ the new lead singer.”

There was a moment of silence, then Joe started shaking his head virulently.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Bad idea.”

“Just because you’re fucking him,” Andy said, “doesn’t mean—”

“_Listen_,” Pete said, and hit play on his laptop.

Patrick’s voice filled the room.

Joe and Andy fell silent again, blinking at the laptop.

Andy said finally, “That’s him?”

Pete nodded.

“What the fuck,” Joe said, “how’d you just randomly manage to pick up a kid with a voice like…_that_?”

“I know, right? Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘I got lucky.’”

Andy was frowning faintly. “What song is that? I don’t think I know this song.”

“That’s the thing.” Pete was even more excited to spill this part of the reveal. “_It’s his_. He wrote it.”

“He writes songs?” said Andy.

“Hang on,” Joe interjected, “you’re fucking a kid who sings like this _and_ writes songs like this? Dude, you’re way out of your league right now.”

“_I know_,” Pete agreed, because did he ever. “But Patrick said he’d be part of our band, as long as we were willing to learn some of his songs, and why not, his songs are great, right?”

“They’re not bad,” said Joe.

“They’re better than what we have,” said Andy.

“Right. So. He’s coming to practice tomorrow.”

“Okay, but, like.” Joe gave Pete what Pete understood to be a significant look, although he didn’t know what it was signifying. “Don’t you see the bigger issue here?”

“No?” offered Pete blankly.

“There’s a rule about fucking people in the band, remember?” said Andy.

“Right, but. I mean. I agreed to that rule when the other people in the band were you two.”

“I’d be offended,” remarked Joe, “except I don’t want to fuck you either.”

“Clearly that rule doesn’t apply to _Patrick_. I mean, have you guys _seen_ Patrick?”

“Yeah,” said Andy. “He’s jailbait.”

“His _mouth_,” said Pete, “is a literal wet dream.”

Joe winced. “No more. No more, no more. You’re only allowed to fuck our lead singer if you never, ever talk about fucking our lead singer.”

“Agreed,” said Pete carefully, considering his options. “Can I talk about how adorable he is, though?”

Andy said, “What happens if…” and then didn’t finish.

_What happens when_, was what Andy meant, thought Pete. _What happens when you do something batshit and drive him away? _

“Not happening this time,” Pete said, with a confidence he really wanted to feel.

***

Connor was a surprisingly enormous help who was willing to spend most of the night crafting up a strategy for hiding the fact that Patrick was in a band now.

Connor had motivation, because he’d extracted a promise from Patrick that Connor could hang around the band and _pick up residual band sexiness_. That was Connor’s term. Patrick was doubtful about how much residual sexiness would circle a band being helmed by _him_. But sure, Pete might have sexiness enough to rub off on someone. So to speak.

Patrick lay awake long after Connor was sound asleep, thinking of bands, and music, and Pete’s mouth on his dick because he was a seventeen-year-old kid, after all. He looked at Pete’s last text, some pineapple-slicing thing, and wondered if he was supposed to make something of that. He hit _reply_ and then drew a complete blank. He had a number of cheesy thoughts that he would never put into words, like _I kind of miss the way you smile at me_ and _I wish you were next to me, I want to know what you look like when you sleep and when you wake up_ and _No one has ever kissed me the way you do, how am I supposed to live without it?_ But all of that was too humiliating. This was supposed to be some kind of fun, breezy, free-for-all summer fling, not Patrick getting all attached and ridiculous.

Patrick sent Pete a gif from _The Little Mermaid_, Ariel spinning underwater, red hair floating around her.

Pete replied immediately. _Im laying awake thinking of u 2. _

Patrick, feeling vaguely embarrassed that he’d given that away, was in the middle of typing something hasty and casual that would make it seem like he definitely wasn’t laying awake thinking of Pete, when he got another text.

_Kinda x-rated thoughts 2 hope u dont mind_

Patrick swallowed and stared at the text.

_Ur better than any porn_, the next text read.

_I want so many naked hrs w/u pls squeeze me in2 ur calendar_

Patrick told his penis not to get its hopes up tonight and typed back carefully, _I think you need to be exposed to better porn_.

Pete sent back a crying-laughing emoji, and then _Practice tom here 7 pm_, and then, _Now leave me alone so I can come thinking abt u in peace_.

Patrick considered his interested dick and sighed. It had a point here.

***

Patrick arrived at Pete’s house in a state of advanced nerves, like he usually did, clutching his laptop and with his trucker hat pulled low over his eyes.

Pete answered the door with his usual wide grin, and Patrick felt it tug at his tension, smoothing it loose. Pete’s smile was an impossible thing.

Pete exclaimed, “Tricky! My cookie jar!” and kissed Patrick’s cheek extravagantly, before stepping outside with him and tugging him around the house. “We practice in the back.”

“Oh,” Patrick said, trying to keep up. “Cool.”

“Band!” Pete proclaimed to Joe and Andy, who were set up in a ramshackle building that had once been a garage and now looked like it was probably condemned. “I have brought you a singer!”

“Hi.” Patrick lifted a hand in a small wave. “How are you?”

Andy and Joe chorused vaguely back.

Patrick said awkwardly, “I told Pete not to make the two of you do this if—”

“No, no,” Andy said, shaking his head.

“Your stuff is cool, dude,” Joe said.

“We’ve been listening to it,” Andy continued.

“Yeah, we think this could be fun.” Joe shrugged, but Patrick took that for effusive approval because Joe seemed like that type.

Patrick said, “Okay. Well. Good, then. My schedule might be a little weird.”

“We’ll make it work,” said Andy, as Joe waved his hand around.

Patrick looked at Pete, who was beaming. This was all going better than he’d been braced for.

“You can make the Fourth of July gig, right?” said Andy.

“Totally,” said Patrick, who was definitely going to find some way to make it work.

“Cool,” Andy said, and turned to his drums.

“So.” Pete clapped his hands together. “Let’s do this!”

It was stilted at first, Patrick trying to learn their songs, them trying to learn his. And he kind of hated having to be up in front of the microphone by himself. Even though Joe and Andy both kept saying his voice was great (Pete, too, but Pete didn’t count), Patrick still felt exposed.

Pete said suddenly, at the end of a song, looking at Patrick closely, “You play the guitar, right?”

Patrick nodded.

“You should bring your guitar next time,” Pete suggested. “We can write a part for it.”

A guitar would have been _awesome_, if Patrick had been allowed to bring any of his guitars with him. “I don’t have any with me,” Patrick said.

“I’ve got an extra,” Joe said. “You can borrow it. Hang on, let me grab it.” Joe went jogging into the house.

It had gotten darker around them, mosquitoes heralding the arrival of night, and Patrick glanced at his phone. No word from Connor yet, but they’d talked Aunt Carol into a generous curfew, Aunt Carol being so delighted at their sudden social lives, so that made sense.

Pete sidled over to him and said, “Sooooo,” drawing it out.

Patrick, aware of Andy looking on, looked at Pete cautiously. “So?”

“You’re pretty hot when you sing,” said Pete, and grinned when Patrick blushed.

“You think I’m pretty hot when I do anything,” mumbled Patrick.

“Uh-huh,” Pete agreed, still grinning. “Is it okay if I kind of…nuzzle you a little when you sing?”

“Nuzzle me?” Patrick echoed blankly, blinking at him.

Pete nodded earnestly.

“I…guess?” said Patrick, who really didn’t know, but that response caused Pete to light up like the sun and Patrick would do a lot to get that reaction out of Pete so he supposed he was okay with it.

Joe arrived back with an extra guitar and apologized for the state of it and Patrick fiddled with it for a while until he felt comfortable with it and then felt embarrassed at how long he made the band wait but he did feel much better singing with a guitar in his hands, even if he was just playing basic chords.

And then Pete _nuzzled_ him, pressed his face to the side of Patrick’s neck and breathed against him, his body so close, hot against Patrick like a supernova, and Patrick felt himself melt toward the microphone, his voice soaring ever higher.

Yeah, thought Patrick. This was doable.

***

Pete pressed Patrick up against the back of the condemned garage building thing, behind Andy’s drum set, and kissed him filthy and wet, then murmured, “I hope you don’t mind if I make out with you for a little while,” and kissed him again.

Band practice was over. Connor hadn’t yet texted. Patrick felt loose and free in a way he seldom did. He felt, actually, sexy and appealing. It was kind of like being high. Or so Patrick supposed.

“You’re so good,” Pete kept mumbling into his mouth, against his skin, into his ear. “You’re so good—so good—your voice—your music—the way you—so good—so good—so good—”

“Uh-huh,” said Patrick stupidly, and then thought maybe he should respond better than that. “You’re—also—good,” was what he managed.

He could feel Pete’s lips curl into a smile as he nipped at Patrick’s mouth. Pete kissed like nothing Patrick had ever experienced before, it was dizzying and all-encompassing, it made Patrick feel invincible, and combined with his adrenaline high from singing with a band for the first time in his entire fucking life, it was almost too much, he could barely manage to kiss back.

Pete drew back, breaking the kiss, and said breathlessly, “Hey. So. Something I wanted to ask you.”

“Huh?” Patrick said dazedly. Here was the part where Pete was going to ask him to do some weird sex thing and Patrick was going to be _totally okay_ with whatever it was because Patrick had lost all standards he ever had.

“Can I rewrite some of your lyrics?”

Patrick had not been expecting that. Something depraved and unbelievably kinky, sure, he’d been braced for that. Something about his music, nope, completely out of the blue. “Huh?” he said again. Pete definitely didn’t want to make out with him because of his conversational skills, he thought.

“And by ‘some,’” Pete continued, “maybe I mean ‘all.’ Or most of them, I guess. I don’t know. I felt like every line could use some sort of tweaking. So—”

“Hang on.” Patrick’s dick had finally let his brain have enough blood to think, and now his brain was signaling disapproval. “You don’t like my lyrics?”

“I mean,” said Pete, “they’re, like, okay, but—”

“_Okay_?” echoed Patrick.

“Don’t be offended,” Pete said hastily.

“Did you think if you made out with me first I wouldn’t be offended?” asked Patrick sourly, a little indignant at the idea that he might be that easy.

“No, I thought you were so hot singing up there that if I didn’t make out with you I’d die. I meant to ask you about the lyrics before the making out happened.” Pete was still leaning against Patrick, pinning him into the wall, but Patrick must have looked thunderous enough that Pete stepped back carefully. “Look,” he said, “maybe if you could just, like, read what I’ve done…” Pete trailed off, scurrying over to where he’d abandoned his bass and coming back with a notebook that he thrust at Patrick.

Patrick took it, still feeling off-kilter. His mouth was still tingling from Pete’s and his brain wasn’t entirely back online. He flipped the notebook open, glancing uncomprehendingly at Pete’s blocky handwriting.

“You don’t have to…” Pete said. “You don’t have to _care_. It’s just… Lyrics are a thing I do. Kind of compulsively. And your songs made me…made me want to say things. Your music sounded like _how_ I wanted to say things. So. I wrote.”

Patrick looked up from the notebook at Pete, and the thing was, Patrick had spent the past few days thinking Pete was impossibly assured, suave, casual. Patrick had been worrying about how much he knew Pete could hurt him, much as he wanted to pretend otherwise. But if Pete started ignoring him and Patrick had to go back to the prospect of a Pete-less summer, Patrick knew he would be achingly devastated, as much as he kept trying to tell himself this was a quick summer fling and he needed to be prepared for the end.

But something about how Pete looked at that moment, his mouth uncharacteristically drawn into a serious line, his gaze a little hesitant, made Patrick realize that Pete had things invested in this, too. These words were not a lark for Pete. They weren’t Pete just trying to be a snob, or superior, or make Patrick feel bad. Pete really _meant_ these words. He was as worried about rejection as Patrick was.

So Patrick reacted the way he hoped to be treated when it came to facing the fear of rejection. He said gently, “I’ll read them.”

Pete lit up like someone had turned a spotlight on him, and Patrick knew he was going to read every single word of these lyrics, that he was going to be forever very bad at saying no to Pete, so it was a good thing this was only a summer fling and would be over in the blink of an eye.

***

The Fourth of July dawned oppressively hot. A shimmering haze hung over everything, like the heat was so heavy it could be seen, _grasped_, its weight pressing down on them.

Patrick was covered in sweat by the time he walked from the house to the car. It was going to be a fucking terrible day.

Aunt Carol was insisting they go to the beach, and because Patrick had to be allowed to leave the house to get to the gig later that night, Patrick was sweetly going along with it, even though he thought the idea of being outside in this stifling humidity was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

A steady breeze came off the ocean. All it did was sting the sweat on Patrick’s body with sand and salt, but, whatever, Aunt Carol kept saying how it would be _unbearable_ without the breeze, like it was bearable with it.

Luckily, the advantage of the beach was Pete was working, because the Fourth of July was always a huge beach day, especially on a really hot day like this. Pete, on his way past on some sort of official lifeguard patrol, grinned at Patrick and kicked some sand toward him playfully. Patrick glared at him.

Aunt Carol said, “Oh, look, it’s your lifeguard friend, isn’t it?”

“Nope,” said Patrick sourly. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

Pete waved cheerfully, and then blew a kiss after Aunt Carol had turned back to Patrick to frown at him for not being a friendly enough person.

Patrick wanted to say, _Let’s talk about how friendly I am, I blew him two nights ago behind a drum set in a garage and I feel like it was a good blowjob, too_. But he decided against saying that.

In the past week his life had coalesced into band practice and filthy, hasty, illicit sex in a garage that was at best semi-private, but they were just really, really bad about making it to Pete’s room in time. Patrick tried to blame Pete, who always fell on him with urgent nips of teeth and swipes of tongue as soon as practice was over, mumbling nonsense about how hot Patrick was singing his words. But Patrick knew he wasn’t blameless, with the way he itched for Pete’s touch, the way his fingers twitched to touch him while he butchered bass beside him, the way he closed his eyes and sank against him whenever Pete pressed into him as he sang, the way his thoughts were so debauched in tone that he was endlessly grateful for the guitar in front of his groin.

“Sing to me, baby,” Pete had commanded one night, “music is our foreplay,” and then he’d swallowed him down in that ruthless way he had that made Patrick completely incapable of staying quiet, and after he’d brought Patrick off he mumbled, “Sing, sing, sing, _fuck_, your voice,” and Patrick gripped hard the back of Pete’s neck and sang breathlessly into his ear, “There’s a light on in Chicago,” and Pete came with a groan all over Patrick.

Patrick had never done so much laundry in his life as he was currently finding himself having to do, and he wouldn’t trade a single thing about it. Patrick was going to ride this summer fling as long as he could, until the wave broke on him and pulled him under. In the meantime, it was a glorious curl of endless blue beckoning to him.

Patrick spent the rest of his day at the beach unabashedly daydreaming about Pete. And _that_ did a much better job of making the beach bearable than the breeze had.

When they got back from the beach, Patrick grabbed the first shower, washing all of the day’s stickiness off of him, and deliberately kept his mind a blank about the performance coming up.

When he got out of the shower, it was to find that Pete had texted him a gif of a mouse pushing a ball around.

Patrick texted Joe and Andy, who communicated in a much more sensible fashion, saying he would be seeing them soon.

Connor came out of the shower and looked at Patrick and said, “You’re wearing that?”

Patrick looked down at his outfit: jeans, an old Prince t-shirt, and his ratty old hoodie.

Connor continued, “It’s a thousand degrees outside, show some skin.”

“A, no. B, I’m going to sweat no matter what I’m wearing so I might as well be comfortable. And C, still no.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Well, good, at least I won’t have to worry about the chicks being hung up on you.”

Patrick made a half-hearted face at Connor. He and Connor mostly got along these days, united by the mutual desire to escape the house. “I don’t mind Connor as much,” he’d confessed to Pete, pillowed against his chest.

“It’s because you’re in a good mood on account of all the spectacular orgasms I’m giving you,” Pete had replied.

“A thing I really like about you is your modesty,” Patrick had deadpanned, and Pete had laughed delightedly and stretched himself over Patrick and kissed him smilingly.

Patrick had lots of sex memories from this fling but he also had soft memories like this that felt soul-destroying, the way they crept through his defenses and hissed about how much beyond the sex he enjoyed, how Pete made him laugh even when he didn’t want to and kissed him through it, how Pete looked at him like he kept the planet turning, how Pete would whisper lyrics into Patrick’s ear like confessions he couldn’t make fast enough, while Patrick dozed against him, feeling drowsy and _safe_ – there was no other word for it – there in that moment. Patrick was usually the one who dozed, listening to Pete’s heartbeat against him, one hand closed around his phone so he would feel the moment it vibrated. Pete, on such occasions, slid his hands up and down all of Patrick he could reach and hummed snatches of poetic phrases at Patrick, some of which Patrick made sleepy note of as they penetrated his daze.

On a very memorable occasion, Pete was the one who fell asleep on Patrick as they waited for Connor’s text. He slept with his eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks, his lips so straight without a smirk. Patrick stroked his fingers carefully through Pete’s hair, not wanting to wake him or startle him, and drank in the sight of Pete sleeping beside him. When Connor texted, Patrick’s phone buzzing, Pete twitched and stretched and mumbled, “…wake up next to you,” and then fell back asleep. Patrick had kissed his cheek before he left, so much more sweetly than he would ever have let himself due to an awake and aware Pete.

Patrick thought of that moment, Pete sound asleep beside him, so deceptively _his _in his unguarded slumber, a lot. More often than he thought of many of the sex moments. It alarmed him, but it was also irresistible, the moment his brain kept returning to of its own accord.

Now he shook himself out of remembering it _again_ and looked at Connor and said, “Are you coming or not?” with false bravado because Connor was his ride.

“Coming,” Connor replied.

Aunt Carol was in the kitchen mixing a fruit salad to bring to the fireworks-watching party she was going to. She said to them, “Now, have fun, you two, and remember to be home by 11, right?”

Patrick didn’t protest because he wanted to make sure they got out the door.

Connor started to whine, “But the fireworks won’t even be until—” and then Patrick pinched his arm violently and said cheerfully to Aunt Carol, “See you at eleven!” and pulled Connor out the door.

“Let’s have a fight about curfew times later,” Patrick told Connor as they walked to the car together. “For tonight, let me just get this performance over with.”

***

It was the kind of air that was difficult to breathe, wet like soup, and the breeze that was kicking up, fluttering the beach towels draped over porch railings all around them, was just as hot and heavy, stale air being blown in Pete’s face as he stood outside and waited impatiently for the rest of his band.

Andy stepped outside and glanced at the sky and said succinctly, “It’s going to storm.”

The sky was hazy white, but the promise of a storm did seem imminent.

“You think it’ll hit before our set?” Joe asked, following Andy out.

“No idea,” Andy replied with a shrug.

Pete frowned a little and followed them to the car. He knew Patrick was nervous about the set and he didn’t want anything to throw him.

So Pete sent Patrick a gif of a turtle eating watermelon to make him feel calmer.

Patrick was already at the party when they got there, standing in the front yard, looking even paler than usual.

Andy remarked as they got out of the car, “Well. He looks a little grim.”

“He looks awful,” Joe said bluntly. “You should have brought him a paper bag to breathe into, Wentz.”

“He’ll be fine,” Pete promised, and headed over to Patrick, sending him a jovial smile. “Tricky! Look how hot you look!”

“Shut up,” Patrick snapped. “Now is not the time.”

“No,” Pete insisted, “it kind of is, I mean you look _literally hot_, why are you wearing a hoodie?” Pete plucked at it.

“So I can _die_,” Patrick said. “I am wearing the hoodie so I can _die_ of heatstroke and be saved from this.”

“Aww,” said Pete, and looked at Patrick carefully, brushing a hand against his forehead as if checking for fever. “I’m sorry to tell you, I don’t think you’re going to die.”

“Pete, they’re pushing up the fireworks,” Patrick said anxiously, not even trying to dodge Pete’s hand, which alarmed Pete.

“What?” Pete said. “Huh?”

“There’s a storm coming. They want to get the fireworks in before the storm. So they’re pushing them up. So they pushed _us_ up. We’re going on in, like, I don’t know, twenty fucking minutes. I think I’m going to hyperventilate to death in the next twenty minutes,” Patrick said, and he did look like he was giving it his best shot.

“Okay,” Pete said. “Stay here. Don’t die.” He wasn’t sure Patrick was going to obey him on either count, so he dashed over to where Andy and Joe were just disappearing around the corner of the house.

“Don’t even tell us he’s backing out,” Joe said, sounding annoyed.

“No, he said we’re on in twenty minutes so maybe we should get set up,” Pete said quickly.

“What?” said Andy. “You’ve got to help me get the drums in place then.”

“First I have to make sure Patrick doesn’t die,” said Pete, and ran back to Patrick.

Patrick hadn’t died.

Patrick said, as Pete came up to him, “Am I supposed to be warming up? I think I’m supposed to be warming up. I don’t know any vocal exercises. What am I supposed to do? Can you look some up on YouTube? Is it going to be a problem if I can’t catch my breath? Probably, huh?”

Pete kissed him to stop the avalanche of panic, and Patrick made a garbled noise but kissed back quickly, his hands coming up to cling into Pete’s shirt, to pull Pete close. He kissed with a little edge of desperateness that Pete hadn’t really tasted on him before, a shove toward the whisper of a bad decision.

“Patrick,” Pete murmured, kissing him with gentled sips, pressing him back against the house to steady him, “you’re fine, babe. You’re a-okay. This is just like practice.” Pete leaned his forehead against Patrick’s and listened to his breaths. They seemed to be slowing, getting longer and deeper, no longer at the fever pitch of terror.

“A-okay?” Patrick echoed weakly after a moment.

“Uh-huh,” Pete replied.

“That’s your great pep talk of reassurance? I’m ‘a-okay’?”

Pete chuckled. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Shut up,” Patrick said, in his special Patrick tone of smiling sullenness.

“How’d you like those vocal exercises? Pretty good tonsil workout, right?” Pete injected a leer directly into the words.

“No, _really_ shut up,” said Patrick, the smiling starting to defeat the sullenness, as he nudged Pete away.

Pete gave him some space and air and said, “I’ve got a gift for you.”

“Please not your dick,” Patrick said fervently. “I can’t deal with your dick right now. Sorry.”

“It’s not my dick,” Pete said, trying to hold back his laughter. “Christ, you’re really obsessed with my dick, you know it? You’ve got a _fixation_ on it.”

“_You’ve_ got a fixation on it,” Patrick muttered, blushing deliciously even though he had already been flushed with heat.

“Your _mom’s_ got a fixation on it,” Pete rejoined, grinning.

“You’re the worst,” Patrick told him. “You’re the fucking worst and I don’t get why I can’t say no to you.”

Pete paused for maximum effect before saying gravely, “It probably has something to do with my dick.”

“Oh, my _God_,” said Patrick, rolling his eyes extravagantly.

“Look,” Pete said, pulling the hat from the waistband of his jeans where he’d tucked it. “Here’s your gift. It’s a hat,” he added needlessly.

Patrick regarded it suspiciously. “Did you just have this hat in your ass?”

“Not quite,” Pete hedged. “Come on, it’s so you can pull the brim down over your eyes and not see people, I thought you’d like that.”

Patrick kept looking at the hat for a long moment, and then he smiled a little and looked at Pete. “That’s a good idea. Thank you.”

“I am full of good ideas, Trickster,” Pete promised him. “Let me tell you my idea for later.” Pete tipped his head toward Patrick.

A whistle pierced the air. “Yo!” Joe shouted at them. “Fucking lovebirds! Come and _help_!”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Patrick whispered.

Pete looked at his wide, unblinking eyes behind his glasses. In the flat, darkening light presaging the storm, Patrick’s eyes looked almost gray, the green receding, the blue hiding. Pete said, “If you take your glasses off, that’ll help you not see the crowd even more.”

Patrick nodded and then said, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Pete, seeing his determination, stepped fully away from him, and they began walking together to the back of the house.

Patrick said, “I still didn’t do any vocal exercises.”

“You’re going to rock it,” Pete replied.

***

Patrick fucking rocked it.

Patrick was better than even Pete’s wildest dreams, and when the set was over, and Patrick was impossibly sweaty and incandescently triumphant, Pete just wanted to tackle him to the ground with glee. Instead, he stepped back and let Patrick be feted, solo cups of sangria pressed into his hand, frat boys and sorority girls alike surrounding him to talk music in flirtatious feelers.

“A star is born,” remarked Andy, as they packed up and Pete watched Patrick.

“Yeah,” Pete agreed, pleased as punch.

“The thing is, whose star is he?” said Joe.

Patrick looked up from the middle of his crowd of people and met Pete’s eyes and smiled, wide and unguarded. _Mine_, Pete thought and didn’t say, because Joe and Andy would laugh at him, or worry about him, and point out he was a needy, clingy failure who drove everyone away, no one ever stayed, and Pete didn’t want to be reminded of that, Pete wanted this moment, right here, looking at a Patrick who was smiling back at him, and he wanted to think, _He’s my star_, and just sink into the fantasy of it.

***

“Sangria is good,” Patrick informed Pete seriously.

“Not nearly as good as you think right now,” Pete told him. “You’d think anything in the universe would be good right now. I should ask you about _Nightmare on Elm Street_ now, you’d totally be into it now.”

“Nuh-uh,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “But you’re driving. That’s good.” Patrick frowned. “Except you don’t have a license. So _is_ it good?”

“All things considered,” replied Pete, “it’s better than any alternative we had. Once you cornered me and said, ‘Get us somewhere else where I can get your cock down my throat,’ I figured we had no option but for me to drive us immediately to a location favorable to that.”

“Mmm,” said Patrick. “Good idea. You have good ideas. The band was a good idea.”

Pete gave him a look. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Patrick nodded. “Good idea.”

“You’re _very_ drunk,” Pete said.

“No, I—I mean. I like this band. I like your words. I’ve been in and out of a lot of bands, and I like this one. Thank you for this one.” Patrick smiled. “This was supposed to be a summer without music, you know.”

There was a pause, then Pete said, “No, I don’t know. Why?”

“My mom says I’m wasting my life.”

Pete said, “Funny, mine says the same thing.”

“But you’re a _lifeguard_,” Patrick protested, aghast.

Pete laughed and turned the car off and turned to Patrick. “A fucking sexy lifeguard,” he growled at him, and bit at his mouth briefly, before getting out of the car.

It took Patrick a moment to register this meant they were back at Pete’s house. He blinked toward it. A storm was coming, he remembered. Dark clouds were rolling in. In the distance there was thunder. No, that was fireworks. There was a flash of pink, half-hidden by the clouds.

Pete opened Patrick’s car door and peered down at him. “You coming?” he said, and then waggled his eyebrows.

Patrick rolled his eyes and got out of the car and looked at Pete. There was something he wanted to tell him, but he couldn’t remember what, so he kissed him instead.

Pete closed his hands into Patrick’s hoodie and tugged him forward, and they walked slowly toward the house, intent on kissing, stumbling up the front steps, up against the front door.

There were more fireworks. Or more thunder. Whichever.

“It’s the Fourth of July,” Patrick said, as the fireworks and/or thunder flashed.

Pete nodded, sucking a hickey onto Patrick’s neck and making Patrick melt against him. “You and I are—” Pete bit at the edge of Patrick’s jaw. “You and I are fireworks.”

“That was the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said,” Patrick mumbled into Pete’s mouth, “never send me lyrics like that.”

“I’m going to send you so many lyrics,” Pete promised, still kissing, still moving away from Patrick, tugging him forward. They were in the house now, staggering along the hallway, knocking into doorjambs.

“I want you to send me lyrics for the rest of my life,” Patrick said. “I don’t want anyone’s words but yours, ever.”

Pete stopped kissing him, lifting his head back, his eyes blown bright and dark all at once. “You don’t mean that,” he whispered. “You’ve very drunk.”

Patrick scowled and shoved Pete backward onto the bed. “I mean it, asshole.” He crawled forward to straddle him, pinning his hands on either side of his head. Pete stared up at him. “I like you, and I like this band, and I love your motherfucking lyrics, I want every word, give me every word.” Patrick dripped the words between Pete’s panting lips, licking his way in afterward.

Pete shuddered under him, his breaths quick and heavy and hot in Patrick’s mouth. “Jesus Christ, Patrick, they’re yours, I’ll give you all of them, tell me what words you want.”

“Patrick,” Patrick said. “I want my name. Say my name like no other word.”

“Patrick,” Pete said. And then, “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.” And then, “Patrick, Patrick, _Patrick_.”

And then, much later, “Patrick, Patrick.” His nose pressed against Patrick’s temple. Patrick on the edge of sleep, dissolving into it. “My Patrick,” Pete whispered into his ear.

“Mmm,” Patrick said, and fell asleep.

***

The fireworks display faded into thunder and lightning. Rain lashed against the windowpane. Wind shook the house. The electricity went out, the hum of the air conditioning cutting off abruptly. Utter silence, complete darkness, enshrouded Pete’s room.

Pete watched Patrick sleep. He snuffled when he slept, nuzzling into his pillow. He looked sweet, and young, and so _corruptible_. _Totally legal_, Pete thought. But still. Maybe not a good idea.

Or the best idea he’d ever had. Really, watching lightning flash stark over Patrick’s face, watching how his nose twitched when thunder rattled through his dreams, Pete thought he looked like the only good idea Pete had ever had.

And he would wake up and forget half of what he’d said and Pete didn’t even care because Patrick had said it at least once, that he wanted all of Pete’s words, for the rest of his life. And wanting all of Pete’s words, that was better than wanting Pete, that was wanting _all_ of him.

Patrick’s phone buzzed, and Pete went in search of it, found it flashing _Connor_.

Pete sighed and answered it.

“Yo,” Connor said, “curfew’s in twenty minutes.”

Pete sighed again and looked at Patrick, who curled closer to Pete as he stroked his hair. “Does he have to?” Pete asked, and he knew he sounded whiney. “Couldn’t he stay the night?” Pushing Patrick out of bed now seemed practically cruel.

Connor hesitated, then said, “Let me see what I can do,” and ended the call.

Pete went back to watching Patrick, until the phone vibrated again.

Connor said, “You owe me fifty bucks.”

“What?” said Pete.

“I got him all night for you, but you owe me fifty bucks for it.”

“Are you prostituting your cousin to me?” Pete asked.

“You don’t have to put it _that_ way,” Connor said.

Pete couldn’t help but be a little amused. “Okay, fine. Fifty bucks. It’s a bargain.”

“Fuck, knew I should have aimed higher,” said Connor, and hung up.

Pete put Patrick’s phone on the table by the bed and laughed with delight before wriggling down to settle against Patrick.

“Pete?” Patrick asked muzzily, stirring a little.

“Do you want to spend the night?” Pete asked him eagerly.

“Uh-huh,” mumbled Patrick.

“Connor pimped you out for the whole night and it only cost me fifty bucks.”

“Go to sleep,” slurred out Patrick, and mashed his face into the side of Pete’s neck.

“Yeah,” said Pete, giddy with the situation. “I will.”

***

Patrick woke with a fuzzy mouth and a heavy head, over-warm and sweaty, and it took him a long moment to register that his face was pressed against something that was _breathing_.

Patrick lifted his head and blinked blearily at Pete next to him, his face half-turned into a pillow, his hand resting laxly on Patrick’s ass.

Patrick put his head back down, weathered a storm of momentary throbbing pain, and then tried to think. He and Pete had _slept_ together.

And then, suddenly, it hit him: He and Pete had _slept_ together.

He took a deep breath in, telling himself, _This is a world that smells of Pete_. He nuzzled the curve of Pete’s collarbone and closed his eyes and tried to catalogue every single sensation of this moment he’d been craving for a long time.

He mostly felt like death warmed over, fuck, how much had he drunk last night?

Pete shifted under him, the hand on his ass squeezing. “Mmm.” He ghosted a kiss over Patrick’s temple. “Is it morning?”

Patrick opened one eye to gauge the level of light in the room. “I think so.”

“Morning,” Pete grumbled, shifting a little violently and curling Patrick into a new hold. “Morning’s so overrated, sleep with me until the afternoon.”

“I don’t even think I can be sleeping with you _now_,” Patrick said ruefully, although he made no move to leave the bed. He was overheated and about to be grounded forever, he was going to fucking enjoy every second of this experience.

“Yeah, you can,” Pete assured him, still speaking in the half-slurred tones of the half-asleep. “Your cousin pimped you out to me for fifty bucks. I get you for the whole night, Tricky, full panoply of services, what’s on offer?”

“You… Huh?” said Patrick. Nothing was making any sense. How hungover _was_ he?

“How’s your head?” Pete asked, nosing behind Patrick’s ear, adding the barest graze of teeth. Patrick’s dick registered its interest in the proceedings. “Do you need to grab some Advil or something before I blow you?” Pete continued, his lips in that perfect fucking spot on the back of Patrick’s neck that Patrick had never known existed until Pete had located it for him.

Patrick’s head wasn’t pounding anymore because all of the blood in his body had decided to help his dick out here.

He tried to mumble _no_ but it sounded more like _mmph_ because Pete already had teeth closed around his nipple and these were the advantages to sleeping naked, Patrick was quickly learning.

Pete was obsessed with Patrick’s chest, for some weird Pete reason. Sometimes he playfully tried to count all the freckles, marking them off with his tongue, trying to see how high he could get before Patrick cursed him and begged enough. He spread his fingers over Patrick’s ribcage now, and Patrick was aware of his heaving breaths lifting Pete’s hands up and down, up and down.

“Patrick,” said Pete into Patrick’s skin. “I want this to be mine.” Pete swiped his tongue over the same nipple he’d bit, and Patrick made a small, embarrassing squeak of a sound. “You can sing for everyone else in the universe.” Pete scraped his teeth down Patrick’s sternum. “But I want this to be mine.” Pete bit at his hipbone. “This breathlessness.” Pete licked along the crease of Patrick’s thigh. “This heat.” Pete drew his nose up the length of Patrick’s erection, light and teasing.

Patrick said, “_Fuck_,” and twisted his hands into the sheets under him.

“The way you feel right now,” Pete whispered, and put his hands flat on Patrick’s chest, pressing gently, steadying him.

Patrick blinked his eyes open, looking up at Pete above him, hair destroyed, eyeliner a mess, more beautiful than any person Patrick would ever have dared to imagine for himself. His eyes were dark and bottomless and Patrick fell in headlong.

Pete said achingly, his eyes impossible to look at and impossible to look away from, “The way you feel right now, waiting for the way I’m going to _make_ you feel – I want that to be mine. Mine and only mine.” He lifted one hand to draw his finger lightly down the curve of Patrick’s cheek, past his sideburn into his stubble. “It’s a selfish thing to ask. Tell me no.”

“It’s yours,” Patrick gasped. He tangled a hand into the hair at the back of Pete’s head, just to remind both of them that he could, that he was there. It felt like a moment that needed as much touch as possible. “I’m yours.”

Pete shuddered and bent his head to bite at Patrick’s throat. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” said Patrick, a little confused. Could Pete possibly have doubted that? Pete, older and hotter and definitely with way more options than Patrick had?

But then Patrick stopped thinking because Pete was pretty good at sucking all of his thoughts out through his dick. It was later, after the orgasm, that he went back to the idea, curiously, his hand around Pete’s dick jerking him off. Patrick said, “I’m yours,” earnest and sincere, and Pete gave him a look and came.

***

Waking up to a blowjob was almost exactly as incredible as Patrick had imagined it would be.

It was a little more introspective, though.

He looked up at the ceiling, Pete silent and still, curled up so his head was on Patrick’s chest and his face was facing away from him. Patrick petted his hand through Pete’s messy hair, starting to curl thickly and without resistance. Patrick liked Pete’s hair at this point in time. It felt like something only he saw. His. The way Pete had wanted things of Patrick’s, Patrick wanted the same things from Pete. Patrick wanted _too much_, he thought.

“So,” Pete said, and Patrick jumped underneath him. Pete had been silent for so long, he’d thought he’d drifted off. Instead, he sounded wide awake and oddly mechanical, for a person who normally suffered from a surfeit of expression. “Cards on the table time, I guess.”

Patrick’s afterglow turned to ice, covered in lead, and then tied to a pack of fiery butterflies. He said, “Okay. I mean. Okay,” because he didn’t know what else to say.

“You said things yesterday,” Pete said. “Last night. Things.”

Patrick looked at the back of Pete’s head on his chest and tried not to panic. “Yeah, I… I was drunk. You know?”

“Yeah, you were very drunk,” Pete agreed, his tone sounding wry.

“Look.” Patrick wanted the world to end but an asteroid didn’t seem incoming, so he had to find some other way to get out of this without Pete walking away. He kept stroking Pete’s hair like he was calm and cool and the sort of guy who had casual summer flings. He said, “I know that I… I mean, I know that I said some things I probably shouldn’t have said. I was drunk. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to make you feel like…like I want too much. I mean. Maybe I—”

“Hang on.” Pete lifted his head, dislodging Patrick’s hand, and gave him an inquisitive look. “What did you just say?”

Patrick swallowed thickly. “I said that I know I sounded like I want too much, and I… I don’t want to make you think that I—”

“No, hang the fuck on,” said Pete, springing up to loom over Patrick, staring down at him in something like wonder. “Are you about to tell me that you don’t want to scare me off by wanting too much?”

“I…” That was more on the nose than Patrick might have wanted to say but he didn’t know what else he could do but admit it, with Pete staring down at him like this. “Yes?” he offered.

“Patrick,” Pete breathed, his eyes darting all over his face. “_Patrick_.” He hugged him suddenly, a full-on sweaty embrace, his face buried in Patrick’s neck. “That’s my fucking line,” he said, and started laughing, shaking in Patrick’s arms.

“Um,” said Patrick, endlessly confused. Maybe Pete was hysterical over…something? He patted his shoulder carefully and said, “There, there.”

Pete snorted more laughter and then managed to lift his head again. His eyes were wet with mirth. “No, you don’t get it. I was about to say that to you. That I always want too much, and I don’t want to scare you. That’s always what I do, I frighten people away by wanting too much. And _you_, Patrick, you I want and want and want, I want to swallow you up and also crawl inside you and also make you laugh and also make you come a lot, like, these are all the things I want, nothing you want could be too much compared to that.”

Patrick stared at him, the breath punched out of him. He managed to say, “What?”

“So the things you said when you were drunk, we can forget them, if you want to, but, Patrick, that’s exactly what I want, every word I have, forever and ever, I want them to be yours, I don’t want anyone to sing any of my words ever again, I want them all in your voice, okay, we can do this forever, we can do this _forever_.”

Patrick kept staring, his mind whirling, because he had never expected…_this_. He didn’t know what to say in reaction.

Then his phone buzzed.

He jolted in startled surprise, looking over it, and then remembered: He’d slept at Pete’s. He’d never gone home. He’d blown curfew entirely. “Oh, fuck,” he said fervently, pushing Pete away so he could get at the phone. It was Connor and not Aunt Carol, which was a blessing. He answered the phone with, “Oh, my God, I’m so fucking late, how in trouble am I?”

“Not at all, Patty-boy,” Connor said blandly. “I covered for you.”

Patrick coked his head in confusion, looking across the room at Pete’s silent air conditioner in his window. “How?”

“You had to help a poor, drunk friend home. Designated driver, you. And then you had to make sure he didn’t choke in a pool of his own vomit. Mom doesn’t approve of your choice of friends but she does think you are a very responsible and sweet boy. You should probably get home sooner rather than later, though. And tell your boyfriend he can send the fifty bucks with you.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes and glanced at Pete. “Did you charge Pete fifty dollars for this story?”

“Well, yeah, I had to get something out of it.”

“First of all, I’m offended, fifty fucking dollars for my virtue?”

“Oh, please,” Connor scoffed, “you were shoving your virtue at him with both hands.”

“Second of all, Pete isn’t paying fifty dollars for a story where you made him an embarrassing drunk. Come pick me up.” Patrick hung up the phone and looked at Pete. “Connor told my aunt that I had to make sure you didn’t choke in a pool of your own vomit.”

“Well,” said Pete consideringly. “I didn’t, so, well done, you, I suppose.”

“Fifty bucks, Pete?” asked Patrick in exasperation.

Pete shrugged. “Look, I would have paid at least seventy-five, he didn’t bargain with me.”

“Asshole,” said Patrick, shoving him gently.

Pete laughed and snagged his shoulders, to pull him back onto the bed with him. He said, “Alright, a hundred? Would you accept a hundred dollars?”

“Fuck you, I’d charge you at least five hundred for the night,” said Patrick.

“So far out of my league,” said Pete, with something like fondness in his voice, a dangerous thing for Patrick to hear. Pete petted at Patrick’s hair and said again, more seriously, “So far out of my league.” He looked at Patrick, somber and grave. “We can forget about everything I just said if—”

“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I’m in. For, like, whatever. I’m in.”

Pete’s mouth tipped into a rueful smile. “That’s such a dangerous thing to say to me, cookie jar.”

“‘Cookie jar’ is a dangerous thing to call me,” Patrick countered.

“Is it? Are you going to discipline me?” Pete wriggled under him with glee.

Patrick rolled his eyes and sat up. “No, I’m going to get ready for my cousin to come get me. Also, why is it so fucking hot in this room? Turn the a/c on.”

“The power’s out,” Pete said. “It went out last night in the storms.”

“Ugh,” said Patrick, rolling out of bed. “I’m so sweaty and gross, can I use your shower?”

“We have, like, this rule in this house, that no guest is allowed to be unsupervised in our shower,” said Pete.

“Knowing Joe and Andy, I kind of bet the rule is the opposite,” said Patrick.

“Patrick, rules are made to be broken,” Pete informed him.

***

The day had been warm, and Patrick had spent it hiding from the sun, as usual. He was severely freckled from his beach summer but he’d managed to avoid any painful sunburn, which he considered a huge triumph. Of course, Pete considered it less of a triumph because he’d really wanted to rub aloe all over Patrick, but Patrick had pointed out that a sunburn would have made Patrick much less inclined to let Pete touch him anywhere, and Pete had pouted a lot over not being able to prove him wrong on that point.

Whatever. The point really was: Patrick hadn’t gotten sunburned. Patrick had been convinced he was going to get a sunburn out of his summer at the beach. Instead, he’d gotten a band and a boyfriend.

It was weird.

The night was cool. Patrick was huddled in a hoodie and felt morose. Their last gig of the season had been on the sort of party house that Patrick couldn’t imagine the cost of, and behind him people were loud and raucous, but Patrick sat on the beach in his hoodie, with the cold salt wind smacking his face, and felt sorry for himself. The day had been warm but the night whispered of fall, told all of them how foolish they’d been to forget it was coming.

“Don’t,” Pete said from behind him.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t brood.” Pete dropped to the sand next to him. “Drive us home and I’ll make sweet love to you.”

Patrick wrinkled his nose at him. “No, you won’t, God, don’t be gross.”

“Drive us home and I’ll eat your ass out until you’re drooling into the pillow and can’t do anything but lay there and take my cock.”

“Aw, thank you for being so romantic,” said Patrick. “I’m going to miss these gestures of yours so much.” It was easier to say that without bawling if he was joking.

Pete smiled at him, quicksilver in the moonlight off the ocean and the ambient light from the house behind them, and bumped his shoulder against his. “Look,” he said. “Really, don’t brood about it, okay? It’s a year. We’ll sext. You’ll send me fabulous dick pics. I’ll send you even _more_ fabulous dick pics because I’ll be artistic about them whereas you’ll just scowl, ‘Whatever,’ and take any old picture of your dick. I mean, not that I will complain. I will cherish every picture I receive of your dick.”

“I’m not sending you any dick pics,” Patrick told him.

“You say that _now_, Tricky, but your horoscope today said otherwise. Anyway, no pictures necessary, Facetime exists, and you’re super-hot when you’re jerking off.”

“I live with my mom,” Patrick reminded him. “You keep forgetting.”

“Believe me, I don’t forget for a second,” Pete said softly, and rested his head on Patrick’s shoulder. There was a moment of silence before he murmured, “I am going to miss you desperately.”

Patrick should say the same thing back but he was too greedy for the reassurance. “Yeah?” he said, and tried not to sniffle.

Pete turned his head to breathe into Patrick’s neck, kissing it quickly. “Yeah. Joe and Andy are going to kill me, I’m going to mope so much.”

Patrick shifted so he could press a kiss to Pete’s head and managed, “Me, too.” He wished he was more eloquent about the whole thing, but Pete was the one with the words.

“We’re going to figure it out,” Pete said. “I promise. Trust me.”

The thing was: Patrick did. So much. He said nothing, looked back toward the ocean, listened to the waves crashing.

Pete settled his head back on Patrick’s shoulder and said, “Thanks for talking to me.”

“When?” Patrick asked.

“Every time. Especially in the grocery store, though. Thanks for randomly being in the grocery store that night.”

“Thanks for talking to _me_,” Patrick replied. “Thanks for even _looking_ at me.”

“Patrick, you have no idea. The moment I saw you, all I could think was: I want to look at him the rest of my life. I never want to _not_ be looking at you.”

Patrick let silence fall before saying grudgingly, “Okay, that was a nice speech, I guess I’ll send you a dick pic to look at.”

Pete laughed in delight and said, “That’s my cookie jar!” and planted smacking kisses all over Patrick’s face, while Patrick squirmed and said, “Stop,” half-heartedly.

In the morning, on his way to the airport, Pete sent Patrick a gif of a water-skiing squirrel.

Patrick hesitated, then texted back, _Never, ever stop_.

Pete’s text was instantaneous. _I never, ever will_.


End file.
